


If It Moves, Kick It

by yallaintright



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Food Metaphors, I AM SORRY, M/M, football is srs bsns, football references, gratuitous barricade jokes, so many football references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:55:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yallaintright/pseuds/yallaintright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he was a religious man, Grantaire would say that when God was distributing football talent on this current generation of players, on the first day he looked at Germany. Then he looked at Brazil. Then he looked at a lot of other teams. And on the seventh day, God looked at France and said ‘you know what, I don’t really fancy it, it’s sunday and they already have croissants, I’m going back to bed.” Clearly, no one informed Enjolras of this. </p><p>Or that one World Cup AU in which Enjolras is very good at kicking a ball around and Grantaire is very good at making footballers punch him in the face. </p><p>Set during the 2018 World Cup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ”Oh my god, do you even listen to yourself? Who died and made you Mourinho?” Enjolras snaps at him. 
> 
> “Going by the way you talk, I’d expect it’s probably the same person who died and made you Maradona.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [my beta](grantairer.tumblr.com).

Grantaire is quite certain that Enjolras wants to punch him. A normal person would probably worry, but this isn’t particularly unusual for Grantaire. Making football players want to punch him is half of what he does. The other half is making them cry. Two years ago, he’d gotten to interview the Spanish goalkeeper the media adoringly referred to as the “the next Iker Casillas”. Halfway through the interview, the kid had broken down, called his agent and begged to be given a job in Kazakhstan so he’d never have to talk to Grantaire again. The football world never heard from him again.

Now, that had been a fun day. 

Which isn’t to say interviewing Enjolras isn’t fun. It is. Just not in the same way. For starters, he looks every inch the French David Beckham, as the press has taken to calling him. Grantaire wants to congratulate him on winning the genetic lottery. He’s got the whole package: hair and eyes and shoulders and an ass clad in pants that are too tight for a footballer as fit as Enjolras to wear with any decency. Not that Grantaire’s noticed. Much. 

Grantaire wonders if he’s this annoying in bed. Probably. Also, he resents Enjolras looking at him as if he’s a complete douchebag when he’s actually on his best behavior. Not that he much cares about Enjolras’ delicate sensibilities, but Enjolras is France’s golden boy and Grantaire behaving in his usual way will most likely result in an overwhelming influx of hate letters to the newspaper. Again, not that he much cares, but every time he gets hate mail Cosette is the one who has to go through it and she already threatens to castrate him twice a week. Grantaire would fill out a very angry intern evaluation form, but he’s quite certain Cosette would just replace it with one saying she’s an angel sent from heaven who deserves free chocolate and foot massages as well as a raise, so the whole thing would probably be a waste of time. 

The interview had even started off well enough, with hellos and shaken hands, and polite, politically correct, PR-approved answers. They’d talked about the start of Enjolras’ career, how he managed to be in top shape for the World Cup despite a very tiring season, how the team was adapting to the weather and how they were all getting along with each other. Sure, Grantaire had thrown in a drama-baiting question over the accusations that with FIFA having a French president, the national team would be given an unfair advantage but Enjolras had smiled politely and said that he was sure that Monsieur Thénardier would have no problem being a fair and unbiased president. Grantaire even managed not to roll his eyes at that.

But then Grantaire had asked what were Enjolras’ expectations for the World Cup and… well. When Enjolras firmly said he wanted to lift the cup Grantaire had practically fallen out of his chair laughing. It probably wasn’t a very professional thing to do, but really, there is no way France is going to win. Which he is currently trying to explain to Enjolras, who is pacing the room, probably to put some space between himself and Grantaire. “Look, it’s not that I think you all suck - wait, no, it’s  _exactly_  that I think you all suck.” 

“France has a long history of -”

“- of sucking. France has a long history of sucking.” Grantaire completes for him, offering a lazy smirk. 

Grantaire reckons Enjolras is ready to strangle him. He might as well have insulted his mother. “I know you’re the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions, but I have to ask – are you always this much of an asshole?”

He looks outraged. Grantaire finds it hilarious. “Yes. It’s a gift.”

“How can you even say that about France’s history? Just barely more than a decade ago - “

“Just barely more than a decade ago, France somehow made it to the World Cup final.” He rolls his eyes. “Do you want to take a look at what’s happened since? In Euro 2008, France managed to not make it out of the group stage, by having a grand total of one point. Apparently, this was such an impressive achievement, that they felt the need to repeat it in 2010. In Euro 2012, they finally managed to make it out of the group stage but then promptly got spanked in the quarter-final by - ” 

This annoys Enjolras even more, “- by the team that would go on to  _win it_.” 

“What, like that’s supposed to make the French feel better? But let us go on, shall we? In 2014, you didn’t even bother qualifying - “

“We were only second in the group, we played Portugal in the playoffs - “ 

“Who then won the Cup, sure. Which wouldn’t be so bad, if this didn’t actually bring us to two years ago, when half the team somehow found a new and spectacular way to crash and burn out of a tournament. Which was by getting into a fist fight. With the other half of the team. _During a match_.” 

Enjolras is practically shouting, “That was different! That was two years ago!” 

“What’s supposed to make it so different this time?”

“I’m here now,” is the only reply Grantaire gets. It is, technically speaking, true. He was just a kid in 2014, barely twenty years-old, and played less than twenty minutes the entire tournament. In 2016 he was already one of France’s brightest stars, but a nasty ankle injury in the last league match had put him out of the tournament. 

“Well,” Grantaire says slowly, running a hand through his messy curls, “sorry if I don’t think your mere presence is earth-shattering enough to - “

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. All the team needs is a  _leader_. They need someone who can keep them together, someone who can lead by example, someone who can lead the way and inspire them to better themselves every single match for the people of France. I can be that person.” 

Grantaire can only snort. “That still doesn’t change anything. But let’s say for a minute that it does. Let us even say that everyone has gotten their anger management classes in this time. It still doesn’t change the fact that for a team that uses such defensive tactics you really can’t defend, that your striker has never met a goal post he didn’t like - “

“Marius has just been extremely unlucky lately. His form is bound to go up, the rest of the team has absolute faith on him.” 

Grantaire ignores the interruption, “- it also doesn’t change the fact that your goalkeeper spends more time trying to check the state of his hair in the giant screens than paying attention to the game and it sure as hell doesn’t change the fact that the entire team hates the coach.” 

Enjolras looks away and it’s clear that Grantaire’s hit a nerve. “We do not hate Javert - “

“Yes, you do.” Ah, the sweet taste of victory. Grantaire leans back on his chair, “You are very attractive when you’re counting all the ways you can kill someone with a water bottle, has anyone ever told you that?” Which, wow, was really  not what Grantaire had intended to say. Really. He fights the urge to knock his head against the table, reminding himself that he is a Very Serious Journalist. He is. He promises he is. He once made a Ballon D’Or winner cry while his mother tried to exorcise him. Again, another fun day. Not the point now, though. He sighs sadly for Enjolras’ benefit and adds, “Do you ever get very depressed because all the hot ones are always so dumb?”

Enjolras ignores both the compliment and the insult. He looks Grantaire straight in the eye. “You’re still wrong.

Grantaire can only snort. “You know, you’re just annoying enough to be an iPhone app. It could be called Delusional Asshole. The English would love you and want to adopt you. They’d feed you all their weird food and let you watch as much Doctor Who as you wanted. You’d never have to work another day again. Hell, you could probably bat your eyelashes at the Queen and she’d adopt you herself. “

Enjolras storms closer to Grantaire. “You’re wrong,” he repeats. 

Grantaire scoffs.  “So you’ve said. You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. Please excuse me for not rushing to buy a “France - World Cup 2018 Winners” scarf.”

“We  _are_  going to win the competition. I am going to lead the team, they will rise to the challenge and we are going to win every single game until we reach the final, and then we are going to win that too. And you’re going to regret everything you’ve ever written about us and said to me today.”

“Enjolras,” he says patiently, “you really have no chance at all. It’d be better if all of you just packed up your bags and went home. France does not need more humiliation.” 

 ”Oh my god, do you even listen to yourself? Who died and made you Mourinho?” Enjolras snaps at him. 

 “Going by the way you talk, I’d expect it’s probably the same person who died and made you Maradona.”

By the way Enjolras’ eyes narrow at this, Grantaire guesses this is the angriest he’s ever been at anyone. He is very close to Grantaire now. 

The thing about Enjolras is that he has been viciously, furiously, savagely, brutally tackled during football matches. He has always turned the other cheek and walked away. He knows the price for not keeping a tight leash on his temper. He has a captain’s armband to honor. He has a reputation to maintain. He has an example to set. He has teammates to inspire. He has the expectations of an entire country resting on his muscled shoulders. 

All of which amount to nothing, really, when his fist connects with Grantaire’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title shamelessly stolen from a quote by Phil Woosnam, who basically explained the rules of football as 'If it moves, kick it. If it doesn't move, kick it until it does.' 
> 
> Tumblr is pullthedevildown. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Football notes:  
> \- There is a World Cup every four years, intercalated with a European Championship, which also takes place every four years.  
> \- Iker Casillas is a very famous, very good Spanish goalkeeper who has captained Spain to two World Cup victories and one Euro Cup.   
> \- David Beckham was also a very good player, although he is also more famous for his looks than for what he does on the pitch, which is why Enjolras wouldn’t be very pleased at the comparison.   
> \- FIFA (International Federation of Association Football) pretty much are the organization that runs football. There has always been a ton of corruption accusations, which is why putting the Thenardiers in charge makes me very happy.   
> \- France’s tournament history is actually pretty much true, except, obviously, for the World Cup 2014 and Euro 2016.   
> \- Quick explanation of World Cup qualifiers - For the qualifiers, countries get divided groups of 5-6 teams. Teams that finish first place qualify automatically and teams that finish second play each other in order to qualify. This is called the play-off stage. The actual World Cup 2014 isn’t at that stage yet but Portugal and France are both very likely to finish second.   
> \- Quick explanation of the World Cup itself - Thirty-two teams get separated into groups of four teams. After all teams in a group have played each other, the two teams with the most points go through to the knockout matches, where they play the remaining teams. In these matches, losing teams immediately go home and winning teams immediately advance to the next knockout match, until only two teams remain to play the final.   
> \- The Ballon D’Or is pretty much the most prestigious award a footballer can get.   
> \- The English do have a sort of reputation for placing way too high expectation on their football team (sometimes to the point of delusion).  
> \- Mourinho (or, as he likes to call himself, ‘the special one’), is sort of an extremely asshole kind of person who thinks he knows everything, but he also is IMO the best football coach in the world, so he sort of does know a lot of things.   
> \- Maradona is arguably one of the two best football players ever (the other one being Pelé). A lot of people will say that he single-handedly carried Argentina to a World Cup win in 1986.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a punch is an art, Grantaire thinks, and he’s mastered it by now.

There are two things everyone should know about Grantaire. The first is that, when it comes right down to it, he is extremely good at his job. He can enumerate all of a team’s weaknesses and strengths without a second thought, can understand the intricacies of the game in ways most people never will, can analyze tactics and strategies the same way scientists analyze equations and formulas. He just gets football and it’s the reason he’ll probably always have a job, no matter how much of a raging asshole he might be at times. He would probably make a great coach, if he liked building things more than he likes tearing them apart. The fact that Grantaire really fucking likes tearing things apart is, precisely, the second thing everyone should know about him. Because when you tend to tear apart things people really love on a weekly basis, you also tend to upset them. And when you tend to upset people, particularly football fans who still remember your articles when they’re drunk, those people have a tendency to punch you if you’re not careful. 

Grantaire has never been careful. 

He reckons his punch counter is somewhere around twenty five by now - at least since he’s started keeping track -  but the World Cup hasn’t even started yet and he’s sure the number is bound to go up. 

At the moment, this is something he is extremely grateful for. For starters, the majority of those punches barely more than scratched him - most people really cannot punch, particularly when they are drunk. And even for those few people who can actually throw a punch, face punches are always a hit and miss and you’re just as likely to end up hurting the person you are hitting as you are of hurting yourself. 

And while Enjolras most definitely can throw a punch, he has two things working against him. One - he’s standing up and Grantaire’s sitting down, which messes up his angle, and two - he just doesn’t have as much practice at punching people as Grantaire has at getting punched. 

It’s that same practice that allows him to realize what’s going to happen a split second before it happens. It’s a reflex by now - and oh how Grantaire is glad he never drinks on the job - and before he even knows what’s happening muscle memory is kicking in and he’s ducking his head and Enjolras’ fist is hitting his forehead rather than his jaw. He’s quite sure that would’ve broken bone if it’d hit the target.

Taking a punch is an art, Grantaire thinks, and he’s mastered it by now. 

His head still really fucking hurts. 

“You know,” he starts, “I don’t even know what’s sadder. That you punch like a girl or that I just got punched by France’s Next Top David Beckham.” Because he is most definitely not going to give Enjolras the satisfaction of knowing how much his head hurts. 

“You deserved that,” Enjolras says through clenched teeth. “And that’s sexist.” 

Grantaire is not even going to acknowledge that. He glares vaguely in Enjolras’ general directions - he’s seeing two of him - and says,“Sit down, Pepe, looking up at you is making my neck hurt.” 

Enjolras doesn’t even pretend to be sorry. Grantaire sort of wants to punch him back. However, while Enjolras does not look pleased at the comparison, for once he does what he’s told, sitting in the chair across from Grantaire. “I - will you  _please_  not call me that?

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, is this supposed to be your pathetic attempt at an apology? Because, wow - that was awful. For the record, you’re supposed to say something along the lines of ‘I’m sorry Grantaire, I am an awful human being, please keep me as your personal slave as long as you need to in order to fully forgive me’. I do so want a personal slave.” His brain does not supply the words ‘sex slave’. At all. He is better than that. He is. “Can you cook? Can you clean? Can you dance? Ooooh, do you style your own hair? Because if you do your own curls, really - congratulations. What’s your secret? I never could get mine to look like that. Although, you’re probably one of those people who just takes a shot of L’Oreal, alongside their extremely healthy, well-balanced breakfast.” He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts. If only his head would stop ringing…  “Although, considering that huge stick up your ass, maybe you should try Herbal Essences. It might do wonders for that temper of yours. France really can’t afford to have her captain getting red carded every single match, can she?”

“You really are a complete asshole.”

“One of my many charms, or so I’m often told.” Grantaire should probably shut up but, look, he wasn’t hugged enough as a child, he doesn’t know the difference between good and bad attention and getting Enjolras all riled up is, in general, punching aside, fun. He vaguely considers that if a Greek God was ever to breed with an angry Cocker Spaniel, Enjolras would probably be the result. It really shouldn’t be humanly possible for someone to be so hot when pissed off, but clearly someone neglected to inform Enjolras of that.

“You deserved that,” he repeats, “you were rude and insulting and talking about things you don’t understand.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “But I still shouldn’t have done it.” 

“Because members of the press shouldn’t get punched regardless of how mean they are to you or because now I hold your fate on my hands?” And he does _not_  think there are other things of the blond he’d rather have in his hands. Punching people shouldn’t be rewarded with orgasms. Although, he supposes that angry sex - hopefully without anyone getting punched - has its potential. 

Enjolras pointedly does not answer him and that’s all the answer he needs. 

The silence between them stretches uncomfortably. And now that the self-righteous anger has abated somehow, Grantaire thinks he can see just an edge of panic in the way Enjolras clenches his jaw. Grantaire gets the feeling that Enjolras isn’t used to it. He doesn’t much like it, either.

“You don’t need me to tell you that that was stupid. Of all the stupid things you could’ve done - stealing the world’s chocolate supply, saying that football is  _just a game_  or - you know, I don’t even know. In the never-ending list of stupid things you could’ve done this one really takes the cake. Hell, it probably takes every cake, cookie, cupcake, pie and pudding in existence. I feel feel like new desserts should be invented just to fully describe how stupid this was. And also because I like desserts. But mostly because this was really fucking stupid.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but - “

“Oh for the love of - fine, keep your panties on. Or take them off, that’s probably the fastest way to get me to forgive you. I’m fine, we’re fine, everything’s fine. You deserve a first row seat to the slaughter of all of France’s hopes and dreams and far be it from me to be the one to keep you from that.” 

A blond eyebrow goes up, “You don’t care that I punched you?”

Enjolras most definitely does not need to know Grantaire’s track record with getting punched in the face. Although… “Getting punched is a lovely way to meet new people. In fact, that’s how I met my last girlfriend. Delightful woman. Great right hook. Unlike you, may I add. You know, it really is pathetic how bad of a puncher you are.” He looks straight at Enjolras. There is only one of him now. That’s a good sign. 

Enjolras zones in on the earlier insult. “I’m not a bad puncher.” A pause. “And we’re not going to get slaughtered.”

Grantaire picks his battles, ignoring the last part. “You are, actually. Please don’t punch people. Not because people shouldn’t randomly be punched, but because you’re just embarrassing yourself.”

“Be serious, Grantaire.”

“France’s sexiest footballer just punched me in the face, I reserve the right to be wild. I also reserve the right to never wash my face again. Just so you know.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes but Grantaire doesn’t miss the way the corners of his mouth go up. It appears that he is back in his (annoying, delusional, self-righteous,  _really fucking hot_ ) element. It suits him.

“What’s your problem with Maradona, anyway? Most players would sell their mothers for even a chance to be mentioned in the same breath as him.” 

Enjolras bites his lip. If Grantaire is going to cover France’s campaign in the World Cup he really should stop getting distracted by it. “Off the record?”

“You’ve already punched me and we’ve established that I’m not going to do anything about it. I think it’s safe to say we’re off the record.” Already he has an idea of what’s coming, and in much the same way you don’t walk in a church and bitch about the Pope, you don’t bitch about Maradona in a football interview to someone who may actually print it.

“Maradona was a waste of talent.” He notices Grantaire about to open his mouth and waves his hands to get him to shut up. ”No, listen -” 

Grantaire ignores him. “I’m sorry, for a moment there you sounded as if you were the one who got punched. Enjolras, are you certifiably insane? You want to say he threw away the end of his career, sure, but how can you say he was a waste of talent when the man single-handedly won Argentina a World Cup and  - “

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that? But he could have done so much _more_. But you don’t know what it’s like, you don’t understand.”

“Then maybe you should explain it, rather than trying to glare me into submission?

Enjolras leans closer to Grantaire, running a hand through his hair. It makes him look more human being and less god, more approachable. “Youth systems are brutal. I was first scouted when I was 12 years old. I lived in a Youth Academy since I was 13. Me, everyone there - we went home on weekends and on holidays and that was it.”

Grantaire can’t help but roll his eyes. “I am so sorry that you had a chance most kids can only dream of having. Get over yourself. Plenty of kids go to boarding schools and they don’t have the benefit of having the world at their feet when they get out.”

He expects anger, but Enjolras only looks tired. “That’s precisely the point, though. Every year around fifty new kids, fifty new children make into the Academy. And every year, in a very good year, four players from the youth ranks make it into the main team. Have you never wondered what happens to the rest? Some make into to the lower divisions. Others move to other leagues, other countries, like Cyprus or Luxembourg. But most of them?  Most of them are dismissed, asked to leave when they’re 15 or 16, sent off with a pat to the back and a “sorry kid, dream’s over, see you in another life”. We give up so much, our families, a normal childhood, even a normal life, we spent so much time working towards a goal, to play in a stadium, to represent our teams, our countries, to lift a cup in one breathless moment… Football is all the life we know, football is all the life we want to know. Every single day we’re under so much pressure, any single moment we can be sent home, while the one thing we’ve ever truly wanted can be taken away from us because we’re just not good enough. And even when we aren’t good enough for it, it’s still the only thing we’ve ever felt good enough for.” 

“That has never happened to you, though.” It’s not a question. He’s done his homework, he knows Enjolras has always been the star in every team he’s ever played and even if he hadn’t done his research, the fact that Enjolras is here, in front of him, three days before the start of the World Cup is answer enough.

“No, but it’s happened to enough of my friends. And I know there are more important things, that plenty of people will tell you that football isn’t that important in the grand scheme of things, but it matters. It matters to me, and it matters to a whole lot of people, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.” His voice is so soft. “I can’t imagine giving up football, I can’t imagine having to go a day without kicking a ball around.”

“It’s the choice you’ve made. Enjolras, it’s the choice you wanted to make.”

Enjolras relaxes slightly, “Yes, and I don’t regret it. But how many kids I grew up with do you think would say otherwise?” He smiles sadly, “There are  _so many_ people who would give up so much for the chance to be here, to be one of the players chosen to represent their countries and then you have someone liked Maradona, who was so talented and still wasted so much of it and could have been so much more.”

He is so close to Grantaire now, who finds himself subconsciously leaning closer, across the space between their chairs. “You’re wrong about something, you know.”

“Oh?” His voice is barely a whisper.

“It does matter in the great scheme of things. That’s why we have World Cups and Euros and  _things_  and that’s why three days from now people will take to the streets with hope in their hearts, painting their faces, wearing red and blue and white and singing songs of victory… It’s important. Of course it’s important.” 

Enjolras smiles, a real smile that lights up both his face and the entire room. He is quiet for a moment. “I really am sorry,” he says softly, at last. “You just - got under my skin and - “ Grantaire does not think of how adorable he looks when isn’t too busy being too insufferable to properly smile. “- and there’s been so much pressure lately and everything that you said? That’s what everyone else has been saying and I guess I looked at you and saw their faces, and you were talking and I heard their voices.” He bites his lip and it really isn’t fair. “I really am extremely sorry. Are you quite alright?” 

“My head”, he replies slowly, “really fucking hurts.” 

Enjolras chuckles. “So does my hand.”

“Good. Maybe next time you’ll remember not to punch people in the face. Particularly if they’re journalists who can actually get you kicked out of the team.” Grantaire is very aware that he’d only have to lean forward a couple of inches to close the distance between them.

From his pocket, the alarm on his phone goes off, breaking the silence between them.

Grantaire mentally curses every God he doesn’t even believe in and checks the time on his phone, promptly getting up. “Well… I guess the interview is over. It’s been… uh..” He frowns, “… an interesting experience. We should - ”

“You should give me your phone number.” Enjolras says quickly.

“Do you want to ask me on a date?” He does not miss the way Enjolras’ cheeks go slightly pink at this. “Wait, is this what this whole afternoon has been about? Was punching me your sneaky way of pulling my metaphorical pigtails? Because I’m not above actually tying my hair into pigtails for you to have something to pull. Also, if it was, then I don’t know who taught you about flirting but that’s really not how you’re supposed to do it.” 

Enjolras raises a very sarcastic eyebrow. “I thought that’s how you met your girlfriend.”

“Ex-girlfriend,” Grantaire corrects. “And that was Éponine. She’s sort of a… er, unique girl. I wouldn’t recommend most people take the same approach to flirting.”

“If they did, you’d get punched all the time.”

“Yes, thank you, that’s - wait what?” Judging by the way Enjolras eyes widen, they both fully registered what he’d said at exactly the same time.

“I mean - What I mean is, you should give me your phone number. So I can be sure you’re not dead from a concussion.”

Grantaire chooses not to press it for now, hastily scribbling his number in a piece of paper, while one of the team handlers comes to fetch Enjolras for an afternoon practice.

* * *

 **Enjolras** : Still not dead?

 **Grantaire** : wasn’t the last time i checked  

 **Grantaire** : unless i’m some highly concentrated ghost

 **Grantaire** : but i hope not, i can’t even walk through walls and what’s the point in being a ghost if you still have to open doors?

 **Enjolras** : I honestly can’t tell if you’re always like this and I should look into getting you into a madhouse, or if you aren’t always like this and I should look into getting you into a hospital.

 **Grantaire** : both equally terrifying, i take it?

 **Enjolras** : Indeed.

 **Enjolras** : Is there really nothing I can do?

 **Grantaire** : i’m fine, enjolras. forget about it

 **Grantaire** : although 

 **Grantaire** : i am working on an article and i’m sure you’d like to weigh in

 **Grantaire** : and i wouldn’t want to pass up another chance to tell you how wrong you are

 **Enjolras** : What’s it about?

 **Grantaire** : the greatest philosophical question of our time

 **Enjolras** : Messi or Ronaldo?

 **Grantaire** : Messi or Ronaldo. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr under pullthedevildown, and my askbox is always open :)
> 
> \---
> 
> Football notes:  
> \- Pepe is a very good portuguese defender, who has a reputation for very rough, very unnecessary tackles.   
> \- Aside from being one of the best football players the world has ever seen, Maradona also had a lot of drug-related issues in his career. He dealt with a cocaine addiction since the mid-80s, which obviously interfered with his ability to play football.   
> \- Europe doesn’t really have college football the way the USA does - in fact, I can’t even think of a single player who’s gone to university. Instead, we have youth academies. where players train and live for most of the year since their thirteenth birthday, building their lives around football. It is a pretty brutal system and really very shitty for players who are told to leave.   
> \- Enjolras’ experience isn’t written with any particular french team in mind as I couldn’t find the necessary information in English. Instead, it is very much based on my knowledge of portuguese youth teams, so I apologize in advance for any inaccuracy as far as the French youth system is concerned.   
> \- Messi and Ronaldo are the two best players in the world right now, but opinions are split over who’s actually the best and the fact that they play for rival teams only adds fuel to the fire.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chickens aside and all things considered, it really comes as no surprise to him when, three days after his interview with Enjolras, France gets trashed by Peru. To be fair here, he doubts it comes as a surprise to anyone, except perhaps Enjolras, special delusional snowflake chicken that he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my beta who fully understands the pain of loving a football team. And also to Marie, for laughing at my jokes.

On his first article about France’s chances in the World Cup, Grantaire wrote that the team reminded him of headless chickens. It is, perhaps, not the kindest thing he’s ever written but it’s also not the _unkindest_ , and he feels like it is a fair comparison as the team’s playing style is basically what he imagined would happen if he took eleven chickens, yelled at them about defensive tactics, put them in a football pitch, hoped none of them would get distracted by flashlights, crossed his fingers and hoped for the best. The chickens may even spend less time on personal grooming than the human players, so Javert at least ought to be happy, if not the female fans. Grantaire feels like chicken football would be a considerable step up from the current team and makes a mental note to email someone about it, underlining the fact that you could always eat the chickens after a game, so at least they’re not as completely useless as the humans players. To be fair, he supposes that human players can _technically_ also be eaten but French authorities don’t look kindly on cannibalism and Grantaire was saving his inevitable life sentence for something special (like strangling whoever thought tiki-taka would be a good idea) and not for committing cannibalism because a football match left him feeling peckish.

Chickens aside and all things considered, it really comes as no surprise to him when, three days after his interview with Enjolras, France gets trashed by Peru. To be fair here, he doubts it comes as a surprise to anyone, except perhaps Enjolras, special delusional snowflake chicken that he is.

Grantaire doesn’t really want to have to write about France in the World Cup. He’s long since accepted that the one unspoken truth about football players is that while there are many things they need to be great at - shooting, dribbling, passing, tackling, heading, defending, the ability to work under overwhelming pressure - there is only one they must excel at - the ability to come together as a team and collectively make their supporters want to set themselves on fire. He also feels like this explains the one unspoken truth about football fans, which is how absolutely miserable football makes them most of the time. And it’s not so much that Grantaire cares about France or France’s chances in the competition and it’s not even the fact that France is going to lose that bothers him. He expects that. It’s that they have to do it in such a spectacularly boring fashion. He understands the need for defensive tactics in football. It doesn’t mean he has to appreciate it.

It has, of course, been a long time since a football defeat has made Grantaire miserable - he is vaguely reminded of 2006 and an awful night when even France’s greatest hero came crashing down to Earth, proving to be just as mortal and fallible as everyone else, but he is most definitely not going to think about that when he’s still sober. And it’s really not like he’s trying to be ungrateful. He isn’t, he’s perfectly aware that people all over the world would sacrifice their firstborns to their Gods for a chance to be here (and Grantaire is perfectly aware that their gods aren’t the same as other people, they are Maradona and Pele and Zidane and Ronaldo), but none of those people have to write about France’s campaign in the World Cup. Because, even though watching a football game still sends a thrill down his spine that nothing else ever will, and he’d rather never touch a drink again then have to give up watching football, having to write about his country being slaughtered in the most boring fashion possible in front of the entire world isn’t particularly fun for him.

It wouldn’t be so bad if he could just cover teams that weren’t France but the guy originally assigned to liveblog France’s first match had come down with food poisoning (Grantaire wonders if he’d had any chicken recently) and it had all fallen on Grantaire, who’d had to sit in front of his laptop for the whole miserable 90 minutes and attempt to write semi-coherent comments about it.

Suffice to say, he failed completely. He neither has nor wants a brain-to-keyboard filter (he doesn’t truly have a brain-to-mouth filter either, but that’s a different story), so writing a live report about a game, one he can’t edit later, is just asking for trouble.

Grantaire likes trouble.

And, granted, France’s ludicrous display in the match gave him plenty to work with. A 3-0 defeat in their first match, truly awful defending on set pieces, zero shots on target, a ridiculous blunder by Montparnasse, who was apparently flirting with someone on the stands during Peru’s second goal and two yellow cards for Enjolras all came together in order to make the duration of the match into 90 of the most awfully pathetic minutes of football Grantaire has ever watched.

On the plus side, he goes to sleep that night with a smile on his face, thinking he might just have been enough of an asshole to never be asked to cover a France game in this World Cup again.

——

In what feels like 30 minutes later, his phone starts ringing and Grantaire viciously decides to kill whoever is on the other end of the line (unless it is someone calling him about his chicken idea, in which case they might be allowed to live if they give him full credit). Regardless of who it is and what they want, it is too fucking early for it and Grantaire does the only sensible thing - he hides his head under his pillow and passive-aggressively ignores his phone, hoping it will go away. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work and the phone keeps ringing, starting up again every time it stops.

Whoever is calling him will be tied to a chair and forced to watch France’s matches. It is somehow a more terrible punishment than death.

He doesn’t even bother getting his head from under the pillow, just gropes around blindly on the bedside table for his cellphone and, once he finds it, presses a few buttons that he hopes will accept the call and put the phone on loudspeaker. At once static fills Grantaire’s hotel room, so at least something’s working for him this morning.

“Are you calling me about my chicken idea?” he grumbles from under his pillow.

There is a pause from the other end of the line, “…What?”

Enjolras’ not-so-dulcet tones greet him and there is no way Grantaire can deal with this without an elephant sized cup of coffee. Annoying Enjolras into hanging up so that Grantaire may go back to bed and have whatever this conversation is supposed to be when he’s actually awake may be his best approach here, so he says: “‘Are you calling for phone sex? Because if you are, fuck off and call me four hours from now. If you aren’t, fuck off and call me four hours from now anyway. Some of us need our beauty sleep.”

“I have a question,” Enjolras says and Grantaire can hear the disapproval in his voice, even across the static.

Dealing with Enjolras’ temper was _not_ how Grantaire was intending to start his day, but he’s quite sure that’s what’s going to happen. “This ought to be good. What do you want?” he asks, burrowing further under his pillow.

“I was just wondering - do you actually train to be an asshole when you’re home alone or does it just come naturally to you?” Enjolras questions.

At last Grantaire gets his head from under the pillow and sits up on the bed, laughing. “I told you - it’s a gift.”

“Do you even think about the things you type? Or do you just cross your fingers and hope for the best?”

“Enjolras, seriously - it is way too fucking early for this. Can we flirt with each other when I’m actually awake for it?”

Enjolras ignores him completely. He tends to do that a lot. “I read your liveblog of our match.”

“Would you like a cookie for that?”

“How can you even - You know what, whatever. You like being a sarcastic douchebag, fine. You could actually have written in some semblance of constructive criticism, rather than just making it a running joke about barricades -“

“At least I didn’t compare you to chickens this time.” Grantaire interrupts soothingly, “That was something. I think it shows character growth.”

“I am not even going acknowledge that you compared us to headless chickens. I will acknowledge, however, that before the match even started you referred to our formation as an ‘actual french barricade.’”

“Yes, and it was hilarious.”

“A joke you then proceeded to run into the ground, by referring to Peru as The National Guard and comparing us to the Revolutionaries of 1832 -”

“Who, in case anyone neglected to tell you, lost. So if you could just change your tactics, that’d be much appreciated.”

“You still weren’t happy and did a head count on the website comments of how many people would be willing to throw down their furniture for our barricade. ”

He actually hadn’t meant to do that - someone had commented asking him what he’d do when the barricade fell and he’d said something about supporting Russia because of the vodka and then someone else had replied offering their chairs to help keep the barricade in place and it all had sort of escalated from there. For Enjolras’ benefit, he says, “Yes, and you’d be surprised how many people actually replied. The amount of women online willing to donate their underwear to your barricade alone would blow your mind.”

Enjolras, again, ignores him. “And then, of course, half-time came and to celebrate the end of the first half you decided to record and upload a video of yourself singing a song about how you had a dream this match would be so different from this hell you were watching.” He pauses. “For the record, you can’t sing.”

“Fuck you, I have a lovely singing voice.” He can somehow hear the eyeroll from across the line, but he has no idea how that’s even possible.

“The second half continued in much the same vein, until, of course, you got bored and proceeded to write porn about Peru and France, while rambling on about how this match is a perfect example of what happens when you forget to set a safeword and that you hoped that Peru had at least bought France some croissants first.”

Enjolras is probably only jealous because Grantaire wrote porn about France cheating on him. “Yes, and you’re just jealous because France is getting laid and you aren’t. I can take care of that if you’d like,”he says with an outrageously suggestive smirk that is wasted on a phone call. Still - the effort ought to count for something.

Enjolras actually snorts at this. “Are you just going to proposition me every time we talk to each other?”

“Everyone needs a hobby. And please notice how I didn’t proposition you when you were defending your little hobbit boyfriend - “

There is a long-suffering sigh down the line. “Messi is not my boyfriend.”

“Dude, I think your last text message about his left foot actually rhymed.”

“Would you rather I waxed poetically about a man who spends more time fixing his hair then passing to his teammates?” Enjolras replies sarcastically.

“And yet, Ronaldo’s still manages to win his teams a shitload of trophies. You just don’t like him because you don’t believe in what you like to call ‘personal glory’ and what I like to call ‘the way the world works, shut the fuck up, Enjolras’,” is Grantaire’s reply, but they are most definitely not going to get into this discussion again. There is only so much fanboying of any kind Grantaire can put up with on a daily basis, and none of it is before noon. “But nevermind that. Are you actually calling because you are genuinely offended by the report or because you need someone to snarl at and don’t want to take out your temper on the rest of the team?”

“I don’t snarl.”

“You do, actually, and it’s adorable”. The fact that Grantaire isn’t bullshitting him and actually does think _adorable_ is something that scares him. Hot he can work with. Fierce, self-righteous, delusional, replaceable by a chicken he can work with. He has no idea what to do with adorable. He mentally kicks himself because he just can’t actually have a crush on France’s captain. It’s too pathetic, even for him. He pinches his nose, “I mean, you did spend this entire conversation growling at me over what I wrote but made no move to disprove any of my comments during the match, so either you just missed hearing my voice - in which case, I assure you, it sounds much better when I’m not asleep and when it isn’t the middle of the night - or you just wanted someone to be mad at.”

There is a long silence from the other line and Grantaire snorts, laying back on the bed and putting his arms behind his head.

“I violently dislike you,” Enjolras mutters eventually.

“No, if you violently disliked me you’d just ignore me. You just dislike the fact that I’m right. There is a difference, however subtle it might be.

“Go on - tell me it wasn’t an awful match. Tell me you agree with Javert’s tactics. Tell me that wasn’t a pathetic display. Defend the team’s performance last night. Tell me you think you have a real chance at winning the Cup if you keep up playing like this.”

Enjolras answer comes at once, “We will put on a better performance next time. We just had a bad match.” It’s cute, really, how sure he actually sounds.

“It’s adorable that you believe that. You know, I think I just rolled my eyes so hard I saw my brain - and it tells me you are wasting your time. Or not, considering you got yourself sent off and won’t actually have to play in the next match.”

Enjolras may actually growl at this. “The first yellow card was necessary, Carrillo would’ve been isolated and I did what I had to do. The second yellow card was unfair and you know it. Zavala tackled me in the box, everyone could see it, it should have been a yellow for him, not the other way around.” He sounds every bit as outrageous as he looked when leaving the field.

He’s right, but it wouldn’t have changed anything in the match. “You were already down 1-0 and you were being completely outplayed, it wouldn’t have made a difference. This way you can actually say you were the first to fall upon the barricades. But if it bothers you so much I’ll make a note to just lay back and think of revolution next time I have to see you all play.”

Something that sounds decidedly like a chuckle from Enjolras fills the room. “You are impossible.”

Grantaire grins. “No, I am adorable. And wait just a second, did anyone actually cry over my article this time? Because that’s always a treat.”

“No one cried.” Enjolras replies at once, but then he pauses, “However, you will be pleased to hear that some of your comments are actually being used as wallpaper on our locker room. As motivation. Please tell me you are covering our next match.”

“Alas, no. I have to write an article about racism from the fans and my editor thinks I should have a first hand experience on the stadium. I’ll be joining the thousands of miserable frenchmen who, for some reason completely foreign to me, have decided to watch it there.”

There is a very thoughtful pause from Enjolras, “Do you want to watch the game with me?”

Grantaire can count on the one hand the number of times a footballer has managed to strike him speechless and still have fingers left. This is one of those times. “Enjolras…”

“I can’t watch the match with the rest of the team. Leaving you alone with the rest of the French supporters will only result in bodily harm befalling you. They’re less likely to punch you if you’re with me.” Grantaire suddenly thinks Enjolras may just be trying a bit too hard to sound casual, but promptly blames it on his still-asleep brain.

“Do you promise not to punch me again?”

“For the match? I think I can restrain myself.” He pauses. “In the future? Who knows. You are a particularly irritating person.” But Grantaire can hear the hint of laughter in his voice.

“My knight in shining French flag. If I say yes, can I go back to bed and can you promise not to call me at dawn again?”

“You do realize, of course, that it’s 9 o’clock?”

“Shh, we’re on French time.”

Enjolras sounds confused, “I meant on French time, it’s noon on Russian time now.”

“FUCK!” Grantaire yells, jumping out of bed. He was supposed to be at the Italian press conference half an hour ago. His editor will not be pleased, there will be consequences and those will probably include him covering the rest of France’s matches. He doesn’t actually whimper, but it’s close. He is halfway through putting on clean socks before realizing he still hasn’t answered Enjolras’ question. ‘Fine, fine, I’ll go with you. If nothing else because you need someone to snark at during the match and you’d make the French on the stands cry. You are a very annoying alarm clock and I am probably a dead man. Goodbye now.”

The fact that he can actually hear a short laugh from Enjolras should be his first clue. It isn’t. As it stands, he is dressed, out of the door and loudly proclaiming to exchange his (non-existant) firstborn for a cup of coffee before glancing at his watch and realizing it isn’t even 9 o’clock yet.

When the revolution comes, he will eat Enjolras first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and feel free to come find me on tumblr - pullthedevildown. 
> 
> If there's anything you'd like to see included please let me know and I'll try to write it in.
> 
> \---
> 
> Football notes:  
> \- Chicken football is, unfortunately, not a thing.  
> \- Tiki-taka is a football playing style used by the Spanish, which is characterised by short passing and truly unbearable levels of ball possession. Practically the entire sports media likes to present it as the one true way to play football and to write about it in such a way that makes it seem as if if you do not like tiki-taka then you do not understand the football. So, obviously, Grantaire cannot stand it.   
> \- In 2006 France played Italy in the World Cup final, where France’s captain Zidane (also one of the best players of all time) infamously headbutted an Italian player and got himself sent off because of it.   
> \- There is, of course, a nasty side to the Messi vs. Ronaldo argument, where Messi fans like to say Ronaldo’s an unbearably arrogant asshole who only cares about himself and not about the teams he plays for and Ronaldo fans like to say people only adore Messi because he has really great press, who likes to portray him as someone who rescues kittens from trees in his free time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac pats Enjolras shoulder comfortingly. “It could be worse. At least he isn’t writing porn about France this time.”
> 
> “Yet.” Enjolras corrects. “At least he isn’t writing porn about France _yet_. Give him time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist: I actually updated this! I am so sorry it took this long, but the football season has made me want to throw myself out of a window and RL has been kicking me in the ass. The next update should be up a lot sooner than this one. 
> 
> My eternal thanks to [Mariana](http://grantairer.tumblr.com/) for being a betaing goddess.

It is time for France’s second match and it is a dark and stormy night.

Okay, no. It is time for France’s second match and it is a bright and sunny afternoon but Grantaire has always had a penchant for dramatics, so in his mind it is a dark and stormy night.

He has just found his seat in the already mostly-full stadium and _of course_ it is right in the middle of the vast bulk of French supporters, drowning him in a sea of red and blue and white and there’s only one option now: he’s going to have to kill Enjolras when he shows up and it’ll be very sad for everyone involved but that’s just the way of the world.

On the pitch below him, the teams are halfway through their warm-ups and Grantaire has already received his first death threat of the day (but probably not his last) and he is now impatiently waiting for Enjolras, half expecting him to show up in a tricolor clown wig and a random assortment of bodypaint scattered all over his body. He is ready to mock. There are going to be jokes. Hilarious jokes. Not as good as his football jokes, but still. Awesome jokes.

And then Enjolras does show up. The bad news is that he is wearing none of those things and all those jokes will go to waste. The really bad news is that he’s wearing his national team blue jersey and red pants that fit way too close for Grantaire’s general comfort and Grantaire can’t remember the last time he wanted to climb anyone more than he wants to climb Enjolras right now and for fuck’s sake, doesn’t the asshole own _any_ loose fitting pants? And who the hell even _wears_ red pants anymore?

The color combination really should be enough to make Grantaire want to punch him in the face, just out of sheer principle. It makes him want to kiss him instead. _Fucking blondes, fucking France, fucking football, fucking hormones, fucking hot footballers, fucking Enjolras with his stupid fucking shiny hair._

“For the love of God, Enjolras, has a French flag thrown up all over you?” He asks with an impassive face, because he’s still _himself_ and being impertinent just comes second nature to him. Besides, Enjolras would probably find it strange if he was polite.

The blonde shrugs, sitting down besides Grantaire. “There is nothing wrong with dressing like you’re going to a football match when you _are_ indeed going to a football match.” He glares at Grantaire’s black shirt like it’s personally offended him. “There is, however, no need to look like you’re going to a funeral when you are, in fact, going to a football match.”

“Oh, but black looks so striking against my pale skin.” Grantaire bats his eyelashes excessively and Enjolras rolls his eyes with a long-suffering sigh.

“So,” Grantaire drawls. “How’s life at the barricades been treating you?”

“I think you’re just supposed to say ‘hello’ nowadays. Has no one ever taught you good manners?”

“Has your coach never taught you how to properly defend during a match?” And wow, Enjolras has been here for less than a minute and they’re already arguing with each other. Must be a personal record, even for Grantaire. He resignedly decides to, _God help him_ , make an effort. “That was mean. It was _right_ , but it was also mean.” He smiles tentatively, because being nice is not something he is used to. “How are you?”

Enjolras shrugs, staring longingly at the pitch. Grantaire supposes there’s his answer.

“Nevermind how I am, how are you?” He pauses. “Er, how is your head?”

“My head is as fine as it has ever been. And I am having the weirdest day ever,” Grantaire complains dramatically.

“What have you done _now_?” Enjolras asks, with the ever present _you idiot_ hanging unsaid at the end of the sentence.

It isn’t so much what he has done. It’s mostly what has happened to him.

The day had actually started normal. He’d woken up with a bitch of a hangover, which wasn’t particularly unusual for him and, in his defense, he _had_ been covering Russia’s match the previous day and you just could not write about the country that invented vodka in a remotely sober state. It’s _Russia_ , there are laws against that sort of thing. Probably. And if there aren’t, there should be.

Still - hangover, quick shower. That had been normal. And after the shower, when he remembered that France was playing Sweden and seriously considered putting on a yellow shirt just to annoy people in the stadium - totally normal. Of course, he eventually settled on black to better mourn the loss of his will to live during the pitiful 90 minutes of football that were sure to happen later but the intention still counted. And it had also been normal to bitch online about France’s non-existent chances in the game and forwarding all his hate mail to Cosette.

And that’s about where normal ends because Grantaire has reacted to upcoming matches in many different ways, but freaking out over whether or not he has a _date_ with France’s captain is a first for him. And then there’s the freaking out over whether or not he wants it to be a date and then there’s even more freaking out when he realizes he does want it to be a date and then he further freaks out because he doesn’t know if he _should_ want it to be a date. It’s possible he may have gotten a bit carried away. Still. He doesn’t know what it is and he doesn’t know what he should want. It’s exhausting and he has no idea what to do, so he does the only sane thing he can do - he ignores it completely and walks out of his hotel room to meet Enjolras in the stadium while _thoroughly_ not thinking about it.

Enjolras, obviously, cannot be told any of this. He can, however, be told what happened when Grantaire got to the stadium.

“Zlatan Ibrahimovic just threatened to kill me.” Grantaire replies in a rush and he probably shouldn’t sound as delighted about it as he does, but if he _had_ died, he wouldn’t have to watch the following match. Unless, of course, there _is_ a Hell, it which case he’ll probably just be stuck in this football stadium with no alcohol (and no Enjolras) watching France play football for eternity (and he’d like the world to know that he’s using the expression “play football” in the loosest possible sense of the words). The thought makes him yearn for the good old days, when all demons did was skin you alive, possibly to a Justin Bieber soundtrack.

Enjolras groans. “Oh god, you can’t have been here for more than five minutes. What did you even do?”

“I may have sort of spilled my drink on him? Don’t give me that look, Enjolras, I _tripped_. I don’t purposefully go out of my way to annoy footballers - well, I might do now to annoy you because you do look adorably like a Cocker Spaniel when you’re angry - but it was an _accident_. And he turned to me and said ‘you spilled your drink on Zlatan’s shirt, you will die now.’ but then I guess he recognized me because he patted my head and said ‘you are funny, tiny human. God to the people of Sweden will allow you to live this one time and that was that.” And Grantaire is aware that there might just be a slightly dazed look on his face. “Do you know, I think I just fell in love.”

 “You have no standards.” Enjolras says.

And that it isn’t exactly fair - Grantaire has standards, _everyone_ has standards, Grantaire’s just happen to be _extremely_ questionable most of the time. Which explains why he’s sitting on a football stadium, about to spend the next couple of hours probably trying to convince one very frustrated Enjolras that he can’t jump into the pitch, no matter how much he might want to. He should’ve brought manacles.

“I should have brought manacles” He says regretfully. “And _fuck_ you, I have exquisite standards. He’s just very - Zlatan. He’s very Zlatan.” He throws up his hands. “It’s _glorious_.”

“You do have a thing for the assholes in the game, don’t you?” Enjolras asks disapprovingly.

“You just don’t understand Zlatan Ibrahimovic. Zlatan Ibrahimovic is to Zlatan Ibrahimovic like Kanye West is to Kanye West.”

“He’s terribly self-centered.” Enjolras says.

“Oh please, you _all_ are.” Grantaire scoffs. “But nowadays everyone tries _so fucking hard_ to pretend they’re all nice and sweet and self-righteous about the whole thing. It’s bullshit. It’s nauseating. And it’s all an act.” He shrugs. “Of course it is. And then every once in a while an asshole comes along. And sure, they’re unbearably obnoxious most of the time, but at least they’re _honest_ about it. I appreciate honesty.”

“So you think I’m pretending to be nice and sweet and self-righteous about football?” Enjolras asks slowly.

Grantaire considers this, while staring at the teams leaving the pitch, finally done with their warm-ups. “Like I said, you _all_ are. In the end of the day you’re all overglorified, overpaid assholes who do what most people can only dream of doing, but still spend most of their time fixing their hair in the mirror and thinking they’re better than everyone else because they can kick a ball around. And then most of you are told that you have to play nice and fit into this nifty little box of humbleness and nicety if you want the press to like you and of course you because getting the press to like you is the first step to winning individual awards, which you want to, and so you all play along. It’s bullshit. It’s perfectly fine if you want everyone to throw their man panties at you, but at least be honest about it.”

“What?” Enjolras gasps. “I don’t want people to throw their man panties at me. Or their woman panties. Or - ”

“What do you want, then?” Grantaire interrupts.

“I want to win. But I don’t want to win because I want to win awards and get magazine covers and be given things. I want to win for the fans. I want to win because when we’re on a pitch, we have a chance to do something most people would die for. And we aren’t just playing for us. We are playing first and foremost for them. For everyone who can’t be on the pitch. For every single person who would bleed and scream and die for their team during a match and will never have the chance to do it. So all we can do is be the very best we can be. And it’s about honouring the history of the team we represent as well, because football is more than a sport and a football team is so much more than just a sports team and _you know_ it is. It’s about hopes and dreams meeting each other and it’s about making people happy. And if you have a chance to win something for your country, how can you not want to give everything you have?”  He is passion personified, lovely and bright and oh so beautiful and _oh fuck, this is a thing, isn’t it, Enjolras actually believes this shit._ “You’re free to like whoever you want, of course, but a football pitch should be a place for team spirit and, for once, putting the individualities out of the way, not for big egos.”

“I like big egos and I cannot lie.” Grantaire deadpans. He frowns at Enjolras. “You’re one of those moronic assholes who still thinks team spirit and club loyalty still mean something, aren’t you?”

“But they do! Can’t you see that?” And Grantaire knows this won’t last. Some kids start out like this, all wide-eyed and idealistic but it never lasts. There is always someone, an agent or a club, waving a shiny contract with lots and lots of zeroes and idealism flies out of the window. It’s just the way the world works.

“Football careers are short and you are all overpaid assholes. Make the most of it while you can, win as many trophies as possible and if people want to throw their underwear at you, well,  just enjoy it.”

“Look - “ Enjolras starts, but he is interrupted by the loud beeping of his cellphone. He frowns at the screen with his mouth firmly set and a worried look in his eyes and Grantaire feels the need to speak.  

“Everything okay?”

Enjolras sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not really sure. Courfeyrac texted to know where we are. He did the warm-up with the rest of the team, but I think Javert sent him to the stands afterwards.”

Grantaire can’t really be surprised by this. Courfeyrac has never been known for his ability to know when to shut up - probably the reason why he’s the one everyone always wants to interview - and allowing the press to shove a microphone in his face right after France’s miserable first match probably wasn’t the brightest idea anyone ever had. If there were any doubts about where the team stood regarding Javert’s terrible defensive tactics they were pretty much answered the moment Courfeyrac decided to say that a team that does not try to score goals cannot expect to score goals. And then proceeded to make his point about the entire situation.

Grantaire can’t see this coming as a surprise to Enjolras either, but, if he didn’t know better, he would say that Enjolras did not want them to be interrupted. However, he does know better, so he puts it down as Enjolras being annoyed that France isn’t starting her best winger.

“Yes, of course it’s okay,” he says and Enjolras smiles softly at him.

He quickly taps something into his cellphone before turning back to Grantaire. “Football isn’t just about winning. It’s about playing the game, it’s about fair play, it’s about deserving to win -”

“Oh god, _please_ spare me the unbearable Xaviness of being.”

Enjolras ignores him. “If you hate everything in football so much, why do you bother?”

Grantaire considers this. “Because I don’t hate football?” At Enjolras’ snort he adds. “No, shut up. You can enjoy the sport without, you know, the usual selling of your soul to a football team.”

“But what’s the point in that? Football is about passion and excitement and all those things that make you jump out of your chair in ecstasy.”

 Grantaire snorts. “Which really makes up for all those times your teams suck, I’m sure. Every single, every fucking season, you all just click your heels together and say ‘we’re going to kick ass this time!’ and you know what? No one ever does, because football fundamentally makes people unhappy. Take this lovely World Cup, for example. Thirty-two teams are competing. That’s thirty-two countries. That’s.... a huge number of people? Stop looking at me like that, I’m _really bad_ with maths. Anyway, out of all these countries, thirty-one will be absolutely miserable by the end of the competition -”

“Not everyone is about winning, though - “

“If you tell me that people come all the way to Russia to see their country _participate_ in the World Cup, I swear to God I am throwing you over the edge of the stadium.”

Enjolras shrugs. “They _do_ , though. Take Peru, for example - “

“Oh, by all means, let’s talk about the team that thoroughly kicked your asses - “

Enjolras, as usual, ignores him. “Peruvian people don’t expect Peru to win the World Cup. Not really. Neither do most countries participating. They just expect their national teams to come here and do the absolute best they can, and in return they just support the team out of love and pride for their country. It’s beautiful. And sometimes teams can surprise you, you know. In the end, sometimes you do win and it’s all worth it.”

“Which, odds are, happens one out of thirty-two times.”

“I don’t get how you can enjoy football without caring about it.”

“I just told you. And stop smiling at me like that, that’s creepy.” He considers this. “ _Why_ are you smiling at me like that?”

“You just went from saying we had to chance at all to saying we had one chance out of thirty-two. I like to count my victories where I can.” And he somehow manages to say that with only a hint of sarcasm on his voice.

“And you say _I_ am impossible,” Grantaire says, trying to sound stern, but the corners of his mouth twist up.

“I still think we can win.”

“And I still think you can’t. I’m not usually wrong about football, Enjolras.” And he isn’t. Not really. Sure, sometimes football is a game of chance, and sometimes teams that don’t deserve to win do, but just dumb luck is never enough to win any trophies. And at least a set of potential winners is always easy to predict, and France is not part of that.

“Someone who didn’t know better would say that you think our starting eleven is nothing but a bunch of traffic cones.”

“I think the words I used were ‘headless chickens’.”

“Grantaire, can you _please_ \- “

“ _Fine_. You aren’t traffic cones, or even headless chickens. In fact, most of you aren’t, individually, the worse thing to ever happen to football but - “

“Oh, praise the lord,” Enjolras says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about us.”

“Shut up,” Grantaire says pleasantly. “Look, it’s like trying to make a cake. I can have all these great ingredients but if someone sets the oven temperature wrong, it’s still going to be a crap cake, you know?” 

“Actually, no.” Enjolras looks at him like he’s crazy “ And why is everything about food with you?”

“I could’ve done an alcohol metaphor but I don’t think your delicate footbalistic sensibilities would have understood it. All you delicious chickens are the ingredients that make the cake, yes? Javert is the oven - or rather, he’s the person who sets the oven temperature because imagining you all inside Javert is just so wrong on so many levels.”

“So all our problems can be summarized as Javert?” Enjolras asks, nodding to himself.

“Not _just_ Javert and I’ve written sonnets about how you all suck, jesus fucking christ Enjolras, do you even pay attention? Sometimes ingredients just don’t go well together or - ”

“Really, first chickens, now cake. What is it with you and comparing the French team to food?”

“And I haven’t even started on the croissant analogies.” Grantaire laughs. “But, like I was saying if you are a great cook like me - “

“Am I actually supposed to believe you can cook? Or do you mean in the football sense?”

“Both senses and I will have you know I am an excellent cook.”

“Of course you are,” Enjolras says, looking completely unconvinced.

“Oh, ye of little faith. I’ll have you know I make an awesome chocolate cake.” By which he means he _orders_ an awesome chocolate cake. Still, there are things Enjolras does not have to know.

“I really, really doubt that.”

“Oh, _fuck you_ , when’s your day off?”

Enjolras narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Tomorrow, we never have practice after a match. _Why_?”

Grantaire lowers his voice meaningfully. “I am baking you a cake and you are going to stop insulting my baking skills.” He doesn’t really let himself think about the reasons he’s offering to bake a cake - or, you know, _order_ a cake - for Enjolras.

 “Oh.” Enjolras says softly, sounding surprised at the invitation. “I’d like that but - raincheck?” He bites his lip again and Grantaire has to stop himself from offering to bite it for him. He really doesn’t know him well enough to be sure, but he thinks there may just be a hint of regret in Enjolras’ voice.  “I’d like to, I’d _really_ like to, but I should stay with the team and I need to train my free kicks. Maybe when the World Cup is over, we can - “

“I’m sorry, journalist dude,” an amused voice interrupts and Grantaire finds himself looking up into Courfeyrac’s laughing face. “That is Enjolrasian speak for ‘sure, I’d love to, what’s your address?’ By the way, you two are _adorable_.”

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh god,” Grantaire groans. “Please no philosophy discussions when I’m regrettably sober.” He narrows his eyes. “But _you_ shouldn’t be here. _You_ should be on the pitch.”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “I thought you said I could be replaced by a chicken.”

Grantaire considers this. “Yeah, but I still bet good money on France losing and you catching the Snitch.”

“What?” Enjolras asks and _of course_ he doesn’t get Harry Potter references.

Courfeyrac laughs, good-humoured, sitting down in the empty seat besides Enjolras. “You still compared me to a _chicken,_ ” he says to Grantaire and tries to look offended, but there is too much laughter in his voice for Grantaire to take it seriously.

“No,” Grantaire replies at once, leaning across Enjolras to better speak to Courfeyrac. “I compared you all to chickens.” He pauses and then adds reassuringly, “But you have nothing to worry about. You’re a very good-looking chicken. Make all the girl chickens go ‘cluck cluck.”

Courfeyrac bursts out laughing and Enjolras folds his arms across his chest, alternating between looking annoyed and confused. “Should I leave you two alone?” he asks, through clenched teeth.

Courfeyrac pats Enjolras shoulder comfortingly. “It could be worse. At least he isn’t writing porn about France this time.”

“Yet,” Enjolras corrects. “At least he isn’t writing porn about France _yet_. Give him time.”

Grantaire frowns at him. “I could be, though. It’s not that hard.” He pauses for dramatic effect and then, with a lofty voice, says, “Let me ask you something, France. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all? Or do you want me to make you my little bitch for 90 minutes straight? Because I think you like my kinky fuckery, France. What does your inner goddess say? What do _you_ say?”

Enjolras hides his face in his hands. “Fifty Shades of Grey? _Seriously_?” He asks in disbelief.

“Shut up, I lost a bet. You don’t know me, you don’t know my life,” Grantaire says defensively, “Wait, are you fucking kidding me? You don’t get a Harry Potter reference but you get Fifty Shades of Grey?”

“Courfeyrac has started to quote it in his sleep,” Enjolras says, with the air of one who has seen all the horrors of the world.

Courfeyrac sticks out his tongue at Enjolras. “At least I don’t snore. Like you.”

“I don’t snore, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says indignantly.

“How do you two know each other's sleep habits?” Grantaire asks, and tells himself the feeling in his chest isn’t jealousy. 

“Javert insists on double beds. He says it’s good for building team spirit,” Courfeyrac replies with a long-suffering sigh. “It wouldn’t be so bad if we could choose our roommates but we drew straws and I, unfortunately, got stuck with a guy who says Patria in his sleep.”  

“That’s what _you_ call your inner goddess,” Enjolras says, shooting him a murderous look.

“Yes, and I blame that one on you.” Courfeyrac winks at Enjolras, but then sighs and adds, “I miss having a single room. And I _miss_ Lamarque. He let us sleep wherever we wanted. And he always said “please” whenever he told us to do something during a match.”

“And afterwards you got a cookie?”

Grantaire isn’t surprised to find out the team misses Lamarque. After the mess that had been their performances in the last Euro - _in their own country_ and for the love of god if you’re going to make a spectacle of yourself at least have the decency to not do it _at home_ \- Lamarque had been one of the few people willing to take over the team. Surprisingly, it kind of worked. He took a group broken into pieces, called in a lot of new players and turned them into an actual team rather than a random collection of football playing individuals. Unfortunately for everyone, he had to quit due to health reasons and Javert had taken over mid-qualifiers, making it a wonder that France even qualified at at all.

Courfeyrac snorts. “Aw, Enjolras, you never said he was funny as well as pretty. I _like_ him. He can stay.”

Enjolras crosses his arms and looks very much like he would glaring at both of them if he wasn’t standing in the middle of them.

Courfeyrac gives him the wickedest smirk Grantaire has ever seen  as France and Sweden return to the pitch, finally ready for the match to begin. “Seriously, though, you two really are adorable. All this Angel-Spike thing you got going on. I dig it. I want to go online and read the stories people will write about you two.”

Grantaire tries to process this. Comes up blank. “I’m sorry, what?”

Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Everyone needs a hobby, you know. I read fanfiction.”

“Couldn’t you just watch porn like the rest of the team?” It’s nothing short of amazing just how much suffering Enjolras can put into such simple words.

“What makes you think I don’t watch porn as well? I have _lots_ of hobbies,” Courfeyrac drawls.

“What you have is too much free time,” Enjolras says.

Courfeyrac chuckles. “It’s fun. Oh, the things the internet can come up with! Although I am afraid I am not quite as bendy as the internet has been led to believe.”

Grantaire bursts out laughing and he can’t help but like Courfeyrac.

And then it’s time for the national anthems and _of fucking course_ Enjolras drags him up for La Marseillaise and of course he and Courfeyrac join in with the thousands of french supporters singing along, _fucking patriotic assholes._

“You could’ve _sang_.” Enjolras accuses as they sit back down and the Swedish national anthem starts playing.

Grantaire grins. “I can’t sing. It’s very sad, you shouldn’t judge me for that.”

“I dreamed a dream this match would be, so different from this hell I’m watching?” Enjolras says in a flat, emotionless tone, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

“Well - “ Grantaire starts.

“But the French come at night, with their defense as bad as - “ 

“Alright, so I do sing. But only for art!!”

“Football _is_ art!” Enjolras snaps, as the Swedish anthem ends and the teams start to take their places on the field.

“Oh, shut up,” Grantaire snaps back.

“Ready?” Courfeyrac asks, interrupting their argument.

“Yes,” Enjolras says.

“Night gathers,” Grantaire says darkly as the ref blows his whistle. “and now my watch begins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hi!](http://pullthedevildown.tumblr.com/)
> 
> \---
> 
> Football notes:  
> \- Zlatan Ibrahimovic is a full-time God and a part-time Sweden player. He also has a tendency for arrogance and to speak in the third person, but at least he’s a fun guy.   
> \- Xavi is a spanish player who tends to say a lot of really obnoxious self-righteous things, most of which tend to be about his team deserving to win because they “had more possession” and therefore not caring if they lost.   
> \- When you get two yellow cards in a football match, that is equivalent to a red card and you have to leave the current game and sit-out the next one, hence Enjolras sitting in the stands. Courfeyrac trained with the team, but Javert decided not to put him on the team or on the bench, and then he joined Enjolras and Grantaire on the stands.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I won’t concede that you even have a chance, darling Enjolras, because the Bible says Adam and Eve, not France and World Cup,” Grantaire replies with a grin and, at Enjolras’ groan, he adds, “It’s okay, I’m sure France will one day meet a nice trophy and settle down. Have you ever considered Eurovision, perhaps?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tiebreaking criteria mentioned here is the one used during Euro 2012. Many thanks to [tulipanblanco](http://tulipanblanco.tumblr.com) for double-checking it and many, many thanks to [Mariana](http://grantairer.tumblr.com) for betaing this.

“Why won’t you just concede that we at least have a chance?” Enjolras asks, without looking away from the match and pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Grantaire sighs. The match started fifteen minutes ago and nothing has happened apart from France being awful at defending and Sweden being awful at attacking. It’s like a match made in very boring hell and Grantaire really wishes he could say that he’s surprised, but he really, _really_ isn’t.  Chances already were their midfield was going to fall apart without Enjolras there and making Courfeyrac sit out the game is probably the best way to make sure that attacking is something that only happens to other teams.

“I won’t concede that you even have a chance, darling Enjolras, because the Bible says Adam and Eve, not France and World Cup,” Grantaire replies with a grin and, at Enjolras’ groan, he adds, “It’s okay, I’m sure France will one day meet a nice trophy and settle down. Have you ever considered Eurovision, perhaps?”

“Shut up,” Enjolras says, throwing his hands up in frustration. “I have no idea why I am actually putting up with you.”

“I think it’s because you think he’s pretty,” Courfeyrac says, in a tone that would be described as helpful if it were coming from anyone else.  He gives Grantaire a quick once-over with a flirtatious smirk firm on his face. “He really _is_ pretty.”

“Oh god,” Enjolras says, sounding horrified. “ _Please_ don’t encourage him.”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “I think he’s funny. And if you’re going to kill someone, I want a first row seat so I can take pictures and comment on your technique.” He pauses to leer at Enjolras, arching an amused eyebrow and then leans closer to him, before whispering conspiratorially, “And by ‘kill someone’ I obviously meant bend them over a seat and - “

Enjolras’ ears turn slightly pink at this and he immediately slaps a hand over Courfeyrac’s mouth, still without looking away from the match. Even Grantaire has to admit it’s impressive, if not very democratic of him. “Courfeyrac, I swear to God - Keep talking and maybe I’ll kill _you_ ,” Enjolras threatens through gritted teeth. “And by kill I mean kill.”

Grantaire groans. It’s going to be a _very_ long match. Still, he _has_ begun to like Courfeyrac. It’s hard not to, with his easy laugh and the natural inclination to annoy Enjolras. “I’m afraid I can’t let you kill him. If you do it, I’ll tell everyone you were wearing Britney Spears’ red latex jumpsuit from Oops I Did It Again in our first interview,” he threatens.

“I doubt anyone will actually believe that,” Enjolras says, unfazed.

Grantaire shrugs. “You haven’t seen my photoshop skills yet.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and Courfeyrac makes a noise which, even muffled by Enjolras’ hand, can only be described as cooing.

And then, judging by the way Enjolras actually jumps in his seat and immediately removes his hand from Courfeyrac’s mouth, Grantaire’s quite sure that Courfeyrac has actually licked his way to freedom of speech.

“Seriously, though,” Courfeyrac says with a wicked grin on his face, now that he is free to speak once more, “You _are_ going to have cake with him tomorrow. Otherwise I’m going to follow you all day singing The Climb. You _know_ I will. ”

“Oh, please no.” Enjolras shudders. “You really can’t sing, Courfeyrac.”

“Yes, I can.” Courfeyrac says.

“No, you can’t. This idiot here?” Enjolras says, and still without looking away from the pitch, points to Grantaire. “Unfortunately, can. You? Not so much.”

“Dear diary, today Enjolras told me I could sing,” Grantaire says in a girly, high-pitched squeal and he doesn’t miss the way the corners of Enjolras’ mouth turn up almost imperceptibly at this.

On Enjolras’ other side, Courfeyrac pouts. “You know, my mother always told me I was a lovely singer.”

“It’s possible your mother may have lied to you, Courfeyrac. Everytime you open your mouth to sing my entire life passes before my eyes,” Enjolras says. “Anyway, shut up, we’re here to watch the match.”

“Cup of tea, cup of tea, almost got shagged, cup of tea?” Grantaire asks curiously and a faint blush colours Enjolras’ cheeks, even though he looks like he’s trying his best to ignore them.

“He doesn’t even like tea, you know,” Courfeyrac remarks, with a very long-suffering sigh.

“Of course he doesn’t like tea, tea is something people drink to relax, why would he ever want to do something to help him relax?” Grantaire asks sarcastically.

“He says he doesn’t see what’s so relaxing about putting weeds in his tea,” Courfeyrac says, as Enjolras does his best to ignore them and focus on the game.

“Oh my god,” Grantaire groans, hiding his face in his hands.

“Indeed,” Courfeyrac agrees, but then his face wrinkles in a frown. “But I don’t think Enjolras is a very good Giles. Buffy, I can see, but a Watcher?  Not really.”

Grantaire considers this. “So Enjolras is Buffy, you’re _clearly_ Cordelia -”

“Thank you, I loved Cordelia. Great fashion sense, that one.”

“But who does that make me - Faith? I really don’t have an ass for leather pants, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire complains.

“On the contrary,” Enjolras says, lost in the game and clearly without paying any attention at all to the words coming out of his mouth, “you have a love - “ And then, his mouth appears to catch up with his brain, as his eyes go unbelievably wide and his face goes absolutely, completely red. It may just be the most glorious thing Grantaire has ever seen.

Grantaire opens his mouth to speak and no words come out. It appears that he’s reached one of those rare times when he has no idea what to say. He turns to Courfeyrac, expecting an explosion of sexual innuendo and witty commentary, but an odd, thoughtful look has settled on Courfeyrac’s face and he stays surprisingly silent.

The moment stretches on uncomfortably.

“You two watch the fucking game and shut up,” Enjolras finally hisses at both of them and crosses his arms over his chest. Grantaire can’t help but be strongly reminded of a cat whose tail just got stepped on.

The tips of Enjolras’ ears stay red for the rest of the first half of the match and, even considering how pathetic France’s performance is being, Grantaire can’t remember the last time he had this much fun. Granted, he suspects it may be due to the fact that he spends the whole time watching Enjolras instead of watching the match.

Because, when it comes right down to it, Enjolras really is very interesting to watch. He won’t stay still for more than thirty seconds - he twitches and shifts in his seat and jumps up half a dozen times in frustration and his hair is a complete mess because he won’t stop pulling on it and his lower lip really does not need to be bitten as much as it’s being bitten. He is absolutely mesmerizing to watch and Grantaire finds himself unable to look away.

It’s more than Enjolras’ looks, though, he realizes with a startle. Sure, he has whole blond and blue-eyed and super hot thing going for him, which is a definite plus, but he also radiates passion out of every pore. It’s true that his looks make him all the lovelier, but Grantaire suspects that he will one day be eighty and grey and old, and watching him then will still be just as enthralling as it is now.

 _This could be dangerous_ , a part of him thinks.

 _I don’t care_ , another, louder, part says.

Grantaire’s almost sorry when half-time comes. What he is not sorry for, however, is when Courfeyrac gets up to use the bathroom.

“So,” Grantaire finally says, ignoring the way Enjolras seems to be doing his best to ignore him.

“I don’t suppose I could ask you to never bring leather pants up again?” Enjolras asks ruefully.

“That depends,” Grantaire says, lowering his voice to a whisper and leaning closer to Enjolras, as he tries his best not to overthink his next words. “Are you going to let me bake you cake on a date tomorrow?”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, also in a whisper. “Is that - is that supposed to be like an actual _date_?”

“Again, that depends - Do you _want it_ to be a date?”

Enjolras smiles softly and leans so close to Grantaire that he can count every single one of Enjolras’ eyelashes. Grantaire is extremely aware of just how close Enjolras is and just how little effort it would take him to close the distance between them.

“Yes,” Enjolras says finally in a barely audible whisper, with the same  soft smile on his face. “But maybe we should wait -“

“Excuse me, Mr. Enjolras, can I have your autograph?” A very young, very female voice interrupts them and the moment is lost. As Enjolras turns to smile down at a little girl who can’t be any older than five, Grantaire is violently brought back down to Earth. _What the hell did he think he was doing? What the hell are him and Enjolras doing? And in a football stadium, of all places?_

“Of course,” Enjolras says to the girl, smiling at her and quickly signing the piece of paper she hands him. Before leaving, she stands on tiptoes to lay a loud kiss to Enjolras’ cheek, and then runs off to her mother, with an adorable blush on her cheeks.

“I think you just made a five years-old fall in love with you,” Grantaire says, to avoid an uncomfortable silence settling between them.

“I didn’t do anything,” Enjolras says defensively. “I just stood here.”

“Oh, but you did. You’re always doing _something_ , that’s the fucking problem.” And it’s possible Grantaire really should learn when to shut up.

Enjolras stares at him, confusion clear in his eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re very... well, _very_.  It’s extremely distracting to five years-olds. And to people of all other ages as well.”

“Whatever this is supposed to be - Please, don’t start?” Enjolras asks, running a hand through his hair.

Grantaire shrugs and the uncomfortable silence he had been trying to avoid settles between them as Grantaire desperately tries to think of a safe topic of conversation.

“Do you want to - “ Grantaire says.

“Maybe we should - “ Enjolras says at the same.

 _Well, that wasn’t awkward at all_ , Grantaire’s brain supplies helpfully.

“So,” he says eventually. “Have you always wanted to be a wide-eyed superstar football player with no common sense?” Being impolite will at least stop the awkwardness, he supposes.

“Yes,” Enjolras replies immediately. “Have you always wanted to be an asshole?”

“I keep telling you that’s a gift. I’m quite sure that if you ask my father, he’ll tell you that I have _always_ been an asshole,” Grantaire says with a shrug, even though his daddy issues are probably not something you should bring up on a first date - assuming this is what that is, and he’s still not sure. When Enjolras frowns at him, Grantaire adds, “Which is probably a conversation for another time. Would you believe me if I told you I am trying very hard to keep this nice and easy and _civil_?”

“Considering I’ve seen your behavior when you _don’t_ try to keep things nice and easy and civil, yes,” Enjolras deadpans.

“Right,” Grantaire says. Out on the field, the referee blows the whistle signaling for the beginning of the second half. Both Enjolras and Grantaire ignore him. “Although I suppose at this point the best way to keep things nice and easy and civil would probably be to complain about Javert.  I mean, it’s quite obvious _that_ secrecy ship has pretty much sailed at this point.”

“Don’t print that,” Enjolras says at once, but then he frowns and shakes his head. “Or do, actually. I don’t care anymore. It’s more than him being an awful coach. I’ve had awful coaches and I still managed to work with them. But _no one_ likes him. He doesn’t listen to anything we tell him and Heaven forbid anyone says anything that goes against what he believes in. And he’s mean to Jehan - he’s always going on and on about how a _proper_ football player should be like or act like. It’s disgusting. I’ll never understand how he got the job on the first place.”

Grantaire probably shouldn’t laugh at this, but he can’t help it. “Well,” he says, with what he hopes is a very obnoxious grin, “When a corrupt old white man loves loves another corrupt old white man very much - “

“Oh goody, a love story,” Courfeyrac sing-songs, returning from the bathroom and sitting back down on his seat. “Please continue.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes carelessly. “That’s pretty much it. When is anything related to football about actual merit rather than about money?”

“What?” Enjolras gasps.

“Oh my god,” Grantaire whines, hiding his face in his hands. “This may come as a shock to you but money makes the football world go round. This may _also_ come as a shock to you, naive little chicken that you are, but FIFA is ran by a bunch overprivileged, overpaid assholes who care about nothing but the money in their bank accounts and -”

“Children - “ Courfeyrac says, interrupting Grantaire’s rant. More’s the pity, Grantaire is ever so good at ranting about FIFA. 

“I am _not_ naive,” Enjolras snarls indignantly at Grantaire, ignoring Courfeyrac. “Do you honestly think I don’t know that? Do you honestly believe I am completely incapable of critical thought and -“

“Children -” Courfeyrac says again, a little more forcefully this time.

“Look,” Grantaire says, ignoring Courfeyrac as well. “FIFA is corrupt to the core, I mean - “

“ _Children_!” Courfeyrac practically shouts.

“What?” Enjolras asks.

“Oh, nothing important,” Courfeyrac replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But while you were busy flirting with each other, Sweden managed to score a goal.”

“What?” Grantaire and Enjolras gasp at the same time.

Courfeyrac stares meaningfully at the pitch, where the Swedish are still celebrating and Grantaire has to suppress a shudder when he chances a glance at the giant screens showing goal repetitions. He wonders if the French team even practice free kicks defense or if they just have a weekly party where they sink down to their knees and pray for the ball to hit the post?

“Fuck,” Enjolras breathes beside Grantaire and he’s inclined to agree.

How in Hell Enjolras and Grantaire managed not to notice the stadium’s reaction to the goal is completely beyond Grantaire.

“Can we even _afford_ to lose this game?” Courfeyrac asks in a very small voice, dreading the answer.

Grantaire does some quick calculations in his head. “Mathematically? Yes. Realistically? I’d recommend buying your return plane tickets as fast as you can so you may get a cheaper price.”

“Peru won earlier today, though. So - “ Enjolras says.

“So if you lose this game, you have to really, really hope Peru can beat Sweden in the last match and that France can somehow score at least two goals against Australia. And that, of course, is assuming that you don’t suffer any more goals today, but there _is_ still forty minutes to go, so I personally wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Australia isn’t that hard to beat, objectively, but - “ Courfeyrac says thoughtfully.

“But you do have a terrible coach,” Grantaire finishes for him. “And Australia did beat Sweden last Monday. Not that Sweden are being that impressive today, mind you. Just impressive enough to beat you.”

“To beat _us_ , or are you not French anymore?” Enjolras snaps at him.

Grantaire, very maturely, sticks out his tongue at him.

“We have to do something about Javert,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes at Grantaire’s tongue. “This can’t go on. He’s been awful to the team, this is _completely_ \- “

“This is _completely_ not the place to have this conversation, Enjolras,” Grantaire interrupts. “Have you forgotten again where you are?”

Enjolras doesn’t look pleased at being told to shut up but he nods. “We’ll talk later,” he says meaningfully to Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac nods, for once with a serious face, before grinning mischievously and bringing back up the old conversation. “So, about that cake...?” He asks.

“Oh, please, Enjolras, let us eat cake.” Grantaire says, batting his eyelashes.

Enjolras narrows his eyes furiously at him. “Was that a Marie Antoinette reference?”

Courfeyrac visibly cringes. “Don’t get him started on the monarchy, _ever_.”

“I just don’t see how - “ Enjolras says but Combeferre is viciously tackled down on the pitch and he immediately shuts up.

Without thinking, Grantaire puts a calming hand on his arm. Enjolras doesn’t remove it. Yet again, Courfeyrac is completely silent.

When Combeferre is back on his feet and Enjolras has stopped muttering under his breath about red cards, Courfeyrac speaks again.

“Ignoring really misguided monarchy references,” he says, winking at Grantaire, “you are going to have cake with him tomorrow. You like cake. Everyone likes cake. And you need to _relax_.”

“We can do it after the competition,” Enjolras says stubbornly.

“No, you _can’t_. You always just stretch yourself thin trying to do everything at once and one day you’re just going to collapse and then you’re not going to be of any use to anyone, let alone the team. If you need to believe that you are relaxing for the good of the team, then so be it. But you _are_ doing it. Besides, a day off is by definition a day where you do things that aren’t related to what you normally do.”

“You know we’re probably going to end up watching some matches, right?” Grantaire asks.

Courfeyrac shrugs. “That’s fine. What I meant is that a day off is supposed to be a day where you, you know, relax, and not a day where you take advantage of having the field all to yourself to practice your free kicks and try to glare goalposts into submission. You aren’t going to get out of this by saying ‘France Before Pants’, Enjolras.’”

Grantaire winces in sympathy. “Does he do that? The glaring at goalposts, not the ‘France Before Pants’ bit.”

“No, I don’t.” Enjolras tries to say, but Courfeyrac ignores him.

“ _Yes_ , he does. All the time. It’s a very Maome sort of thing, I think. Like, if the ball doesn’t go inside the goalposts, then he will glare at the goalposts until they get out of the way?”

“Watch the damned match,” Enjolras says, looking up at the sky - probably searching for divine patience.

After ten particularly boring minutes, where Sweden has settled back to defend their lead and the French apparently show no initiative to attack, Grantaire can’t resist pulling on Enjolras’ pigtails again. “Okay, seriously, what _is_ the goal here? To show to the world that you - I’m sorry, that _we_ are French and therefore don’t need no fucking attack? We laugh in the face of teams that attack. And then we cry. But mostly we laugh.”

Objectively, Grantaire can see the problem. France’s attitude has been to lay back and defend while Sweden attack and then try to fight back with their pathetic attempts at a vicious counterattack. It isn’t working because Sweden is, apparently, very happy to be defending, and the French team looks completely lost out on the field.

Courfeyrac sighs in sympathy, “I think Javert’s theory here is that France is a strong defensive team that doesn’t need no goals.”

Enjolras appears to agree, “He has always subscribed to the theory that defense is the very best form of attack.”

“Just as well that you choose not to be down there, really.”

“Oh, _fuck you_ ,” Enjolras says, throwing him a filthy look, “That wasn’t my fault - “

“Of course it wasn’t. You still should probably consider anger management classes - “

“I’m not fucking angry!” Enjolras snaps and Grantaire can see a drop of blood where Courfeyrac bites his lower lip to stop himself from laughing.

“Yes, you are. That’s why you got a red card, you know. It’s the card for angry men!” Grantaire says conspiratorially to Courfeyrac, leaning across Enjolras.

“Please shut up,” Enjolras says and Courfeyrac hides his face in his hands, dissolving into helpless laughter.

As the game goes on and on, and the French still show no attacking initiative, Grantaire starts mentally composing the article he’s supposed to write once he gets back to his hotel and, for once, Enjolras is the one to interrupt his train of thought, rather than the other way around.

“Don’t you have an article to write or something?” He asks, and Grantaire has to resist the urge to kick him.

“Don’t you have a motivational speech to prepare for when this mess is over?” Grantaire drawls.

“Oh, fuck you - “ Enjolras growls.

“He has nothing to worry about,” Courfeyrac says with an easy grin. “We just have to listen to my motivational mixtape. And don’t look at me like that, Enjolras, you really could do with listening to The Climb, to be honest. It’s a very motivational song. Miles better than what you pick when it’s your turn to pick the music on the team bus.”

Grantaire won’t ask.

He won’t.

He does. “What _does_ he pick?”

“Rage Against The Machine,” Courfeyrac says, with a disgusted look on his face.

“There’s nothing wrong with - “

“Nice,” Grantaire says approvingly. “Didn’t have you down for that kind of music. Still, perhaps using a band whose most famous verse consists of ‘fuck you, I won’t do what you told me” as motivation, isn’t the best of ideas?” Grantaire considers this further. “You’ve always had a problem with authority figures, haven’t you?”

“There’s always other options,” Courfeyrac laughs. “I’m also rather partial to Adele.”

“I set fire to Javert, watched him burn as I kicked his face?” Grantaire sings and he can’t avoid the smile stretching on his face when Enjolras actually chuckles at this.

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes but says nothing.

As the clock ticks on, Grantaire can feel the sense of foreboding settling down on the stands amongst the fans and he can’t help but feel sorry for everyone who spent money on the ticket, even though this was exactly what he was expecting to happen.

Three minutes before the end of the match, Courfeyrac feels the need to break the eerie silence by shouting, “Oh, _fuck_ this, I’m becoming a stripper.”

Everyone within hearing distance turns to stare at Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac waggles his eyebrows lecherously back at them.

“Well, we know what will be on the cover of every newspaper in France tomorrow,” Enjolras says sarcastically, “France’s performance so bad that star player considers career as a stripper.”

“Damn, that _is_ good,” Grantaire says thoughtfully, and quickly types it into his cell phone. “I may actually use that tomorrow. Thanks, Enjolras.”

“What?” Enjolras sputters indignantly at him.

“That was a _joke_ ,” Courfeyrac says. “Unlike me becoming a stripper - I think that may actually be a very valid career choice. I mean, I have the perfect legs for it, if I do say so myself.”

Enjolras groans, hiding his face in his hands. “You are _not_ becoming a stripper. And you are also _not_ going to talk about becoming a stripper again - that is not a mental image that I need, Courfeyrac. ”

“You know,” Grantaire says slowly. “This is the most boring, pathetic thing I’ve had the displeasure to watch in a very, very long time. And Cosette once made me watch all four Twilight movies with her.”

Courfeyrac shudders. “Yeah, I see your point - Pontmercy once forced me to watch them as well. It’s probably for the best if we never introduce them to each other.”

Grantaire feels very inclined to agree.

“It’s almost over now, and then we can leave,” Courfeyrac says, glancing at the clock on the giant screen.

He shakes his head. “That’s just an illusion. You can never leave this game. You’re here until you die.”

“Well, that’s dramatic,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire shrugs.

As the ref blows his whistle and Enjolras goes completely still beside them, Grantaire has to resist the urge to tear his hair out. “Dishonor on the game, dishonor on France, dishonor on their fucking barricade,” he says instead.

When Courfeyrac and Enjolras get up from their seats to join the rest of the team, Grantaire wonders what will happen when France inevitably lose their next match and they have to go home. Enjolras doesn’t look the crying type, but then again, they never really do.

He quickly waves them off in their way (after Courfeyrac vigorously assures him that he will most definitely be seeing Enjolras the next day, even if Courfeyrac has to drag him there) and settles back down on his seat, waiting for the very depressed crowd to leave the stadium so he doesn’t have to put up with any of them.

Minutes later, when the stadium is finally almost empty and Grantaire is just about to get up from his seat when a warm hand on his shoulder stops him. He isn’t sure what he’s expecting to find when he looks up at the person the hand belongs to, but a part of him can’t help but hope it’s Enjolras and that’s something he _really_ doesn’t want to analyze on a deeper level. However, he is greeted by Courfeyrac’s gently smiling face.

“Can I sit?” he asks, gesturing to the seat besides Grantaire.

“Shouldn’t you be down with the rest of the team?” Grantaire replies, as Courfeyrac shrugs and sits down besides him.

“I told Enjolras I forgot my wallet,” he pauses and then adds, “I think we need to talk.”

And _oh_ , Grantaire hates hearing those four words, everyone hates hearing those four words. It is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing good can ever come out of those four words and whatever it is Courfeyrac wants, Grantaire is sure he is way too sober for it. Still, he really has no choice but to deal with it.

“Oh?” Grantaire asks as calmly as he can.

Courfeyrac seems to be considering his words very carefully, rather than saying the first thing that comes into his mind like he had during the match. Several seconds go by before he speaks. “You know, I think we have a lot in common -”

“Courfeyrac, you are _really_ not my type -” Grantaire interrupts, even though he’s quite sure that’s not why Courfeyrac is there.

“Darling, you _wish_ I was your type,” Courfeyrac says with a wicked grin and the sight of it slightly calms the growing lump on Grantaire’s throat. “I’m not hitting on you, relax. Though I _do_ think you are very pretty,” he says reassuringly.  What I meant is, you don’t really have a filter for anything that comes out of your mouth, do you?”

“What would be the point?” Grantaire asks. “Besides, deprive the world of my natural brilliance? I am really not that cruel.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “No, I don’t suppose you are. I don’t really have a filter either.” And Grantaire has to agree with that. “I probably should have one, all things considered, but I don’t really like to have to think about the things I say or to pretend to be something I’m not. And I’m a good person. Or at least I like to think I am.”

“If you’re trying to get me to talk you out of killing Javert, I’m really not - “

“This isn’t about Javert, this is about about...cake. This is about cake. And about you having... _cake_... with Enjolras,” Courfeyrac whispers softly, even though there is no one in the seats around them.

 _Oh, fuck_ , Grantaire thinks.

“I like to trust people,” Courfeyrac continues, in the same soft tone of voice.

“Yes, that’s why you usually get in trouble with the press, Courfeyrac.” Grantaire states.

And it’s true. Enjolras still gets regularly in trouble, but he’s mostly learnt when he has to shut up - probably a good thing because, judging by his earlier interviews, if he hadn’t, he’d be allowed to play approximately a match a season. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, is an entirely different matter. He’s not quite as... _revolutionary_ as Enjolras, but saying he doesn’t really have a filter is not an inaccurate description. Luckily for him, what he says get him with in more trouble with the press and the tabloids than with actual football authorities.

“Maybe,” Courfeyrac shrugs. “Or maybe not. I’m aware that people are doing their jobs. I just can’t be bothered to lie about how I feel about something. But that’s not the point here. The point is that I do like to trust people. And I’ve found that most of the time, if you trust people, people will surprise you and be worthy of that trust.”

“I have this friend I think I should introduce you to. I believe it’s called common sense.”

Something in what he says seems to reassure Courfeyrac, as he visibly relaxes besides Grantaire. “That’s exactly it, isn’t it? You’re an _asshole_.” And Grantaire never had anyone call him an asshole in such a delighted tone of voice.

“I am very confused right now, Courfeyrac.”

“Right,” Courfeyrac says, nodding to himself. “This is good. I think so, at least. Well. Look, I’m not good at these things so I’ll keep it short and to the point - Enjolras _wants_ to have cake with you,” he says matter-of-factly, his voice soft and low, even though all seats around them are empty.

“Okay?” Grantaire says slowly.

“You are not stupid,” Courfeyrac chides, “Don’t act like it. You know what I mean. If it was up to me, Enjolras could have any sort of baked goods he wants. But...”

“But...?” Grantaire presses.

“But you’re a member of the press.”

And there aren’t many things that truly offend Grantaire - the football game he just witnessed may actually make the list - but Courfeyrac somehow just managed to do it. “Do you _honestly_ believe - “

“That you’re a _male_ member of the press? If you’re not, you have the weirdest taste in shoes of any woman I’ve ever met,” Courfeyrac says pointedly, rolling his eyes and Grantaire understands the problem completely. Despite everything that people like to believe, the world is still fundamentally a very shitty place. Even in the twenty-first century, football stadiums are still supposed to be Europe’s last great beacons of sheer undiluted masculinity. In the end, Enjolras could shove his hands up any woman’s skirt in public and, in a worst case-scenario, all he’d have to do is put out a semi-apologetic press statement and the world wouldn’t bat an eye. If Enjolras were to as much as hold Grantaire’s hand in public, it would probably be the end of his career. _Welcome to 2018,_ Grantaire thinks sadly _, everything has changed and yet everything is still the same._

“This conversation isn’t about cake at all, is it?” He asks Courfeyrac.

“Maybe there is no cake. Maybe the cake is a lie. Who knows?” Courfeyrac asks, shrugging his shoulder. “That’s not the point. The point is that if it were to make the headlines that Enjolras is... _eating cake_... well. It could be dangerous. And not just for the team.”

“Look, if you want Enjolras not to - oh _god_ -  not to _eat cake_ \- “

“I’m sorry, was that what I said?” Courfeyrac says. “I don’t think it was. I’m all for Enjolras having as much cake as he wants! Cake is awesome, cake makes people happy, all I want is for Enjolras to be happy. I mean, I’m a huge fan of cake myself - well, not _cake_ cake. I personally prefer other types of baked goods but if cake makes Enjolras happy then that’s what I want him to have. Although, I do have to say there’s this delicious triple-layer chocolate cake with strawberry filling in this tiny place in Paris - “

Grantaire frowns at this. “I’m very confused at the turn this conversation is taking.”

Courfeyrac frowns at himself. “Yeah, I kind of got lost on my own metaphor. Got distracted by actual cake - that does happen a lot. But no, look - I think cake can be just what Enjolras needs. However, some people will probably not be pleased. And it’s not - it’s not fair, he really should have any cake he wants - except for that delicious triple-layer cake, of course, which I will not share with anyone - but that’s something Enjolras shouldn’t have to deal with right now. Not the eating the cake part, just the part where people aren’t happy about him having cake. You know?”

Grantaire does know. And he should shut up, he should shut up and let it rest but he can’t, so he finds himself making word noises again. “I’m not - I don’t _know_ what I’m doing, I don’t know what _we_ are doing. He is the most infuriating - I mean, one minute he’s glaring at me and the other he’s - “ he stops himself, because Courfeyrac is still Enjolras’ friend and losing his shit in front of him is probably not a good idea. He picks his next words very carefully. “Look - I can’t promise you no one’s going to get hurt - or eat too much cake and get awful diabetes and die, if you will -  because I really don’t even know what the fuck this. But I’m not - I’m not a shitty person. And I’m not in this for the story.” He can’t keep the disgust out of his voice.

“You’re an asshole.” Courfeyrac repeats, and it’s the statement of a simple fact, rather than an insult. “If this really was an act, you’d be nice. You’re really _not_.” Courfeyrac pauses to gather his thoughts. “If I thought you were in it for the story, we wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place. I think you’re probably a decent person, on the whole. You’re a bit too obsessed with chickens, but we all have our kinks.” He pats Grantaire’s shoulder reassuringly. “I’m usually a good judge of character. And you’re really too much of an asshole for this to be an act. So I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt and I really need you to prove me right.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“Look,” Courfeyrac says, soft and tentative and with no hint of the usual mischief in his voice, “it’s _really_ none of my business and Enjolras would kill me if he as much as dreamt this conversation was happening. But - don’t be an ass? He doesn’t really - that is to say - look, just. _Don’t be an ass_. Please. That’s all. Keep it nice and easy. And, for the love of God, be careful. I trust you to keep you to keep this out of the papers of your own free will but I still don’t trust the people in charge of those newspapers. _Please_ , be careful.”

“Are you really quite sure you’re not reading too much into this? I’m not even sure Enjolras likes me.”

“No? Then perhaps you could explain to me why for the first since I’ve known him he actually spent more time fixing his hair in the bathroom than me?”

“His hair looks the same as ever!”

“Yeah, well. Five minutes on the bus ride and he was already trying to tear it out to keep himself from shouting at Javert. Literally. Still, it’s the thought that counts,” Courfeyrac finishes with a smile and Grantaire really appreciates Courfeyrac’s honesty.

Then he realizes what Courfeyrac’s said. “Enjolras can actually _shout_ at Javert? That’s nice, I didn’t know he was fluent in pathetic loser.”

Courfeyrac bursts out laughing at this and Grantaire feels a part of the weight he’s been feeling since this conversation started lifting from his shoulder. “You know, I think your awful cake may be just what Enjolras needs.”

Grantaire can’t help but laugh. “I order my cake. Not the metaphorical cake but the actual cake. _Please_ don’t tell Enjolras that.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Courfeyrac says with a smile.

“I still think you’re misreading Enjolras here.” Grantaire _really_ doesn’t know when to shut up.

“I’m really not. You haven’t watched many League 1 matches, have you?”

“No, I just go online and read what people write about it.” He answers sarcastically. “Of course, I’ve watched League 1 matches, do you think I just insult you all without knowing what I’m talking about?”

“And you’ve never noticed what happens when Enjolras doesn’t get to start a game?” Courfeyrac says, raising an eyebrow.

It’s impossible not to pay attention to Enjolras when he’s on or off the pitch - even Grantaire’s predisposition to dickishness had allowed him to to realize just how hot the blonde was before even meeting him. Still, he doesn’t understand what Courfeyrac is getting at. “Is there a point to this or - “

“He looks like a child on a sugar high, he never sits down ever, he shouts and screams, he tears his hair out, he pretty much has to be kept in manacles in order not to jump inside the pitch. And this is of course for times he has to sit on the bench, because you can bet your pretty ass in leather pants that if he’s not called he won’t be watching the game in the stands. He’ll be downstairs, trying to make his way into the locker rooms.”

“That’s not really like legal,” Grantaire says.

“Oh yes, that ought to stop him, I’m sure.” Courfeyrac checks his watch and gets up from the seat. “I really should get going. I hope this conversation does its intended work.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “By the way, I have to ask - do you always flirt with... well, people who offer to give your teammates cake?”

“Yes. I blame Combeferre. He told me I could be anything. I became John Terry.”

Grantaire _really_ likes Courfeyrac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr is pullthedevildown. Come say hi!
> 
> \---
> 
> Football notes:  
> \- Homophobia is still a huge problem in European football (much more than it is in American sports) and this is an issue that will be addressed in the rest of the fic.   
> \- John Terry is an English football player who allegedly had an affair with a teammate’s girlfriend.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the fuck?” Grantaire yelps from the floor. “Have you been stalking me?”
> 
> “It’s not stalking if all I did was google you,” Enjolras says defensively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, sorry for the long wait between chapters! 
> 
> Betaed by the lovely [Mariana](http://grantairer.tumblr.com/).

When Grantaire wakes up the next morning, the news about Javert being off the team is all over the internet. He doesn’t even bother getting up from the bed before calling Cosette, who thankfully picks up on the first ring.

“Now,” she says immediately. “Before you decide to kill me, I just want to remind you that when you’re in France I’m the person who usually gets you coffee in the morning.”

“What the fuck? Why would I want to kill you?” He grumbles into the phone, before waving his hand dismissively, even though he knows she can’t see it. “Wait, nevermind that now. What the fuck is going on with this team? Are they trying to actually out drama every single French team in the history of time? Because five minutes ago I would have said that it’s a losing battle as they’re up against some very strong contenders but I just don’t know anymore. I mean, if they can keep this up, they may actually have a real shot at it.“

“And a good morning to you too, sweetheart,” Cosette interrupts sweetly, but Grantaire can hear an edge of relief in her voice.  “Or at least that’s what I’d say if it wasn’t 3PM. What time did you even go to bed last night?”

“I don’t have to answer any of your questions, you’re not my real mom,” Grantaire cheerfully informs her.

“Oh, goodie,” Cosette sighs tiredly. “Were you up all night trolling Uruguayan fans again just because they didn’t qualify for the World Cup? Because I keep telling you, it’s just not nice to make fun of them. It’s not their fault  Suarez decided to bite the referee in the play-off match.“

“Which football fans I do or do not troll on my free time is my own problem.” And maybe Grantaire _was_ up late last night but, in his defense, he was freaking about Enjolras and what he should or shouldn’t do about the blond. It’s really not his fault that annoying people helps him relax or that football fans in internet forums are particularly quick to anger and therefore extremely easy targets.

“Of course it is,” Cosette says. “Look, do you actually have any idea what happened with Javert or - “

“Cosette,” Grantaire interrupts. “I _literally_ just woke up. All I did was turn on my laptop. I’m not even wearing any pants yet. I called you to see if _you_ knew what was going on. On or off the record, I don’t even care anymore.”

There is a thoughtful pause as Cosette seems to consider what to tell him. “Not much.” A short pause. “There were... issues. Everyone knows there were issues, that isn’t really news. Javert’s relationship with the players was strained, just like it had always been. But there was a huge fight with the entire team last night. Papa won’t tell me what it was about and he didn’t say anything about what’s going to happen now. But whatever it was, it was bad.”

“Papa?” Grantaire asks blankly.

He can hear Cosette scoffing from the other end of the line. “Papa. As in my father. As in Jean Valjean. As in Javert’s assistant coach. Honestly, do you ever listen when other people talk to you?”

“Hey,” he says defensively. “I don’t work well until I’ve half-drowned myself in coffee. We’ve established that. We’ve accepted that. We’ve learnt to embrace that as another quirky personality trait of mine. Just like we’ve embraced my inability to say no to you when you want to try to braid my hair, even though it is definitely too short for that. By the way, you are the worst intern _ever_. Now, if you have no more juicy gossip to share, I’m going to hang up and go find myself some delicious coffee and then I’m going to have to go hunt down the best damn cake Russia has to offer.”

“Cake?” Cosette asks inquisitively. “Why do you want cake? Are you going to try to bake again? Please don’t do it, Grantaire. You are too young to die.”

“Ahah,” Grantaire deadpans. “You are _hilarious_. And I don’t know why I’d go out to _buy_ cake if what I wanted was to _bake_ cake. And honestly - you explode a kitchen one or two times and all of a sudden it becomes this thing and you’re not allowed anywhere near ovens anymore. Where is the trust, Cosette? Where is the trust?”

“It died,” Cosette replies darkly. “Along with my microwave. Which you still haven’t paid for, by the way. You are the worst mentor _ever_.”

“I love you too, sweetheart,” he says pleasantly. “But fine, I do solemnly swear that I am up to no cooking. At least not today. I have a thing. A thing that requires cake. So, if you’ll excuse me - “

“What kind of thing requires cake?” Cosette asks and Grantaire supposes that’s a fair enough question.

“The sort of thing that - “ A knock on the door interrupts his train of thought. “Aw,” he says as he gets up from the bed and walks towards the door. “Do you know, I think my coffee godmother has come to visit me - “

His words die in his throat as he opens the door to find himself face to face with Enjolras.

“Cosette, I’m going to have to call you back.”  He hangs up the phone. “You know, I never wake up to anything this nice,” Grantaire tells Enjolras as a greeting, his eyes raking over the blond. 

“I need your help,” Enjolras says at once, but then he takes in Grantaire’s appearance and his mouth hangs open. Enjolras’ eyes eyes travel slowly over Grantaire’s body, from his hair (which is very messy), to his chest (which is very naked) and to his groin (which is only covered by a pair of bright orange boxer briefs), all the way down to his feet (which are bare). He gulps audibly and pointedly looks away, but Grantaire doesn’t miss the faint flush coloring his cheeks. He’s about to open his mouth to say something impertinent, when Enjolras speaks again. “You’re not wearing any pants. Or a shirt,” he accuses, because apparently he really likes stating the obvious. “I suppose I should be glad that you’re at least wearing underwear to open the door and therefore making _some_ effort in not getting arrested for indecent exposure.”

“Does my semi-naked body distress you?” Grantaire asks, smiling beatifically at Enjolras, who is still refusing to meet his eyes.

Enjolras’ only response is to let out a long-suffering sigh and swiftly push his way into the room, looking anywhere but at Grantaire. “Please put some clothes on,” he asks. “I really do need your help. And for you to wear pants.”

“Are we killing Javert today? Is that why I need pants?” Grantaire asks, delight clear in his voice as he closes the door behind him and walks around Enjolras to pick some clothes from the pile on top of the couch. “Wait, but why can’t I kill him in my underwear?”

“What? No! Look - Right,” Enjolras says firmly  “Did you just roll out of bed?”

“It’s possible I may have slept slightly late today.” Grantaire admits, quickly putting on a pair of jeans. He grabs the first t-shirt he can find. It’s completely white and frightfully non-offensive and now he’ll need to go even more out of his way to properly annoy Enjolras. Again. Good thing annoying him is fun. “But in my defense, you’re very early for our cake thing.”

“I tried calling you,” Enjolras says defensively. “You wouldn’t pick up your phone.”

“I was asleep,” Grantaire points out, pulling the shirt over his head. “Right, everything strictly PG over here - you can look at me again.”

“Is this normal, to have your clothes lying around on top of the couch?” Enjolras asks, judgment clear in his voice as he stares back at Grantaire. “And why aren’t you staying with the rest of the French press, anyway?”

“Have you tried hanging out with the French press for extended periods of time?” Grantaire asks with disgust, but he moves the pile of clothes from the small couch over to the top of the bed, sinking down beside it. “They’re the most pretentious, egotistical, pompous, stuck-up, self-important arrogant assholes you’ll ever meet.”

“I suppose it takes one to know one,” Enjolras replies sarcastically.

“You know, Enjolras, when you decide to retire from football, you should try to look into a career in stand-up comedy. I know it’s a bit unconventional for a football player, but I’m sure you’d find a way to make it work. You look like a resourceful kind of person.“ At Enjolras’ eyeroll, he adds, “No, but seriously - completely unbearable. I don’t know how anyone can put with any of them for more than five minutes.”

“Well,” Enjolras says, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “You have been putting up with yourself for... what? Thirty years now?”

“Oh, fuck you, asshole,” Grantaire snaps, giving him a dirty look. “I’m twenty-nine.”

“Yes, but how does that translate to asshole years?” Enjolras asks quizzically.

“Oh, shut up,” Grantaire says pleasantly. “You may take the couch, my liege.”

Enjolras’ lips curl in distaste at this, but he obediently sits down, not commenting on Grantaire’s choice of nicknames.

“Now, what can I do you for?” Grantaire asks, making an effort to put as much innuendo in his voice as he possibly can.

“Didn’t you read the newspapers this morning?” Enjolras enquires. 

“Well, I suppose you _were_ going to have to find out anyway,” Grantaire declares gravely. “I’m not really a journalist. You see, I’m secretly a princess from a faraway land. I was sent to this foreign land by my fairy godmother to find my one true love. And maybe discover how to make popcorn. She does so like her popcorn. And then I figured disguising myself as a football journalist seemed like the best choice at the time. Although, granted, had I known then what I know now, I’d probably have dressed as a milkmaid. Less chance of getting punched in the face by overbearing, self-righteous, patronizing Enjolrases. Though I suppose I could get kicked in the face by a cow, which is by no means a positive life experience, of course, but - ”

“Can’t you be serious for five fucking minutes?” Enjolras asks.

“Yes, I fucking read the newspapers this morning,” Grantaire snaps. “What the fuck do you think I do when I’m not with you, sit around all day staring at the mirror and curling my long fairytale princess hair while my an army of birds and mice cooks me lunch and dresses me in the finest silks the world has to offer?”

“See, I kind of want to say yes just to see where you’re going with this but I have the feeling I’d be stuck in this room until the end of the tournament listening to you prattle on about long lost princesses and silk dresses,” Enjolras says, looking like he wants to knock his head against the wall. Or maybe Grantaire’s head. Possibly both of their heads. It’s hard to tell.

“Is this what the help thing is about? Do you want my help to find a fairy godmother, who will turn your ragged football kit into a beautiful pink princess dress so you can go to a dance and meet a talented coach who will save you from a lifetime of terrible tactical choices? I can help, of course, but it’s important that you accept that playing football in a long dress may actually be quite complicated and counter-productive to your goals. And, obviously, I just don’t know  how well crystal cleats will work on a pitch, so we’re going to have to - “

“That’s why I need your help,” Enjolras cuts in, just when Grantaire’s about to get to the good part of his rant. “Disney movies aside - How much do you know about Javert leaving?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Javert’s off the team. You’re not saying why yet and no one’s leaked anything to the press so we’re not quite sure what the reasons are, exactly. But the main theory seems to be that he quit, though if you ask me - “

“That’s not incorrect assessment of the situation. Long story short, we refused to train until he left. The Football Federation could either go along with it and get him to leave or they could deal with another repeat of what happened in 2010.” Enjolras offers carelessly, like this is perfectly normal behaviour for a football team. “They took the easy way out.”

“And Javert went along with that?” Grantaire asks, disbelief clear in his voice.

“He didn’t really have a choice,” Enjolras shrugs. “The Federation was very clear about what was going to happen. I think they just don’t want to deal with the drama shitstorm, but it all worked out in the end.”

“It all worked out in the end? _It all worked out in the end_?” Grantaire echoes sarcastically. “Are you insane? Even if you try to spin this as a good thing, you will be hounded by the press. There is nothing we love more than a good drama. Enjolras, this will be a _mess_ -”

“We know that,” Enjolras says. “The Federation’s going to say Javert quit due to health reasons. Courfeyrac has been trying to sell a chicken pox idea to anyone who will listen.”

“And you think Javert is going to agree to that?”

“He’s not - “ Enjolras bites his lip thoughtfully. “I never liked him and I still don’t. There were too many pointless arguments and discussions about things that are not football related. And you know how I feel about him as far as football is concerned. But he meant well. To the best of his abilities, he meant well. He’s not going to go out on a scorched earth bang. Maybe when this is over he’ll talk to the press, but it won’t be an issue for now. He won’t talk, not while it can negatively affect the team.”

“Still, the Federation - “ Grantaire starts.

“The Federation would rather have a coach who had to leave with chicken pox than a coach kicked out by his own team. 2010 was bad enough, no one wanted to go through that again.”

“In 2010 players were punished for those actions,” Grantaire points out. “And now you act like spoiled children and get what you want?”

“It’s possible we will be punished as well. But you know how it is,” Enjolras says and it’s clear how little he cares. “They won’t do anything until the competition is done and even once it is, worst case scenario is that we’ll be forced to miss a couple of friendlies. They can’t risk official matches because then chances are France will lose endangering future qualifications and the people will not be pleased about that. And even if that wasn’t an issue, they still wouldn’t want the media storm that’s bound to happen if they get their hands on the true reason he left. The Federation will probably just end up shoving this under the rug if they can and nothing will happen just so they don’t have to deal with this in the press.”

Grantaire doesn’t miss Enjolras’ interesting choice of nouns. _They_. Not _you_ , _they_.

“Okay,” Grantaire says slowly, looking at Enjolras questioningly. “Is this why you’re here? Do you want me to plant the chicken pox rumour? Because I don’t usually deal with shit like this, Enjolras. This mess really isn’t what I do. I could _maybe_ call someone for you who could be persuaded into helping you idiots out, but the Federation is probably already bullying everyone they can think of to put a positive spin on the story, so - “

“No, that’s not it.” Enjolras gives his face a searching look and he must find whatever it is he is looking for, because when he speaks again his voice is strong and sure. “Okay. Grantaire, if you had to coach in our next match, what would you do?”

Grantaire blinks. “Is this a trick question?”

“Just answer the question, please,” Enjolras asks quietly.

“First, I would spank you all until you decided to stop on this kicking long balls up at Marius bullshit. It just doesn’t work, it’s like throwing french fries into your bathtub and hoping they magically turn into pizza. And in the end you’ve ruined your fries and you get no pizza out of it and you also have to clean your bathtub. Or you have to smell like a french fry, if you decide to take a bath in it, I guess. Though I have no idea why you would.”

“Can you please, _please,_ be serious?” Enjolras asks looking at the ceiling, probably in search of some patience.

“I was,” Grantaire says, leaning back against the clothes and putting his feet up on the bed. “Kicking long balls up at Marius will achieve nothing. Kid couldn’t get past a traffic cone on horse tranquilizers with a ball on his feet if his life depended on it and we both know it.”

“Grantaire, either -”

“Fine,” Grantaire says and his voice turns matter-of-fact and emotionless. “You have to score at least two goals in that match. So first, you have to stop with this over the top, barricade-building, defensive bullshit. That’s a small team’s tactics and individually you are far too good to just lay back and defend. I know, I know, “ he waves hand dismissively. “It’s a high risk to take because you can’t afford to concede any goals but you’re not going to score any if you put eleven players in front of the ball, Enjolras. And you _have_ to score. It’s a risk worth taking, though mostly it’s because you have no other choice. And at least this way watching you play wouldn’t make me want to throw myself out of the nearest window - and look out the window, this is a second floor room, I probably won’t even die but I’d break some bones and I’d be in pain both from the fall and from having to watch you play.”

“Grantaire -” Enjolras warns.

“Right.” Grantaire says. “Look. You play as fast as possible, you use a defensive line that’s high on the field  - take some advantage of the fucking offside trap - and you keep tight lines between your defense and your attack. You press as if your life depended on it - because as far as football is concerned it _does_ \- and instead of sitting back and trying to prevent the Australians from scoring while they attack and you wait for them to come to you, you go straight to the root of the problem. You win the ball back on their half and you stop them from attacking altogether by not giving them time or space to construct offensive plays.” Here, he pauses for breath. “And you don’t need a double pivot - Combeferre is an excellent “six”, just have him play right in front of your defensive line and no one else. And then have your fullbacks spread along the field and - again - have your centre-backs push as high as possible. And for the love of God work on set pieces. Yours are painful to watch. No one’s expecting you to score from set pieces. Or to properly defend them. This way, they will be expecting the French Revolution and you will give them the Spanish Inquisition.”

“I worry about your pop culture references sometimes,” Enjolras says.

“All part of the plan, really,” Grantaire says pleasantly. “After all, no one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Right,” Enjolras says. “So you understand why we need your help.”

“We? _We_?” Grantaire echoes. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Enjolras takes a deep breath and laces his fingers together. “Still off the record, Valjean is going to get the job. And he’s very good with the team and we all like him very much but he doesn’t really have any experience with tactics or formations or - “

“Wait - Just what the fuck are you asking me, exactly?” Grantaire asks, his voice rising with every syllable.

“He doesn’t really have any experience with tactics or formations,” Enjolras repeats, before looking Grantaire straight in the eye. “You do.”

There’s a pause. Then Grantaire finds himself laughing so hard he falls off the bed.

“Are you _high_? Is this the new strategy now, to get players high before the matches? Are you drunk? Wait, or why did you fall on your head? Should I check for lumps?” He asks, between chuckles.

“I’m not joking,” Enjolras says sternly. “For all the unnecessary commentary you provide in your articles, your match analysis as your match previews are spot on. Everyone always says so. You said it yourself the first time we meet - you’re not usually wrong about football. You almost always get the results high and I _know_ you have a UEFA Pro coaching license - “

“What the fuck?” Grantaire yelps from the floor. “Have you been stalking me?”

“It’s not stalking if all I did was google you,” Enjolras says defensively.

“Okay, leaving aside the fact that that license is only theoretical and I’ve only gotten to better bitch at people and, in fact, I have never been anywhere near a football team, why the fuck don’t you just get someone who has experience with this shit? Like, I don’t know, someone who’s actually managed a team before?”

“Because there is no one else,” Enjolras says, like the dramatic asshole he is.

Grantaire scoffs. “In the whole wide world, there isn’t one football coach who fits your patriotic standards?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “We’re mid-tournament, Grantaire,” he says impatiently. “Even if all the good coaches weren’t already working for other teams or other clubs, we’re _mid-tournament_. There’s no time to prepare anything, you just jump right and try to get shit done. No one we could ever get would even remotely know enough about the team. There just isn’t enough time to get anyone else. We play again in four days.”

“What? And you think _I_ know the team?” Grantaire asks, still from the floor.

“I think you have been writing about us for a very long time and you are _excellent_ at what you do. Courfeyrac likes you, which means that the team will like and you do come very highly recommended,” he confines.

“What the fuck?” Grantaire snaps.

“Valjean’s daughter - Cosette, is it? - she says you know more about football than anyone she’s ever met. And Valjean really trusts her judgement, so he’s all on board with the idea. And had read your articles - though he had to ignore about half of every single one because you really are a complete asshole when you try - and he thought they were brilliant. The bits not about chicken, of course. ”

“Right, look - “

“No, listen.“ Enjolras interrupts. “We’re not asking you to train the team or to take responsability about anything. But you know a lot about football and you are excellent at tearing teams apart. That’s all we want you to do. Just come in, have a chat with Valjean about tactics. Tell us what’s wrong with ours, tell us how to fix it and tell us what the other team will probably do and what’s wrong with it. That’s all I’m asking.”

“What about my journalistic integrity?” Grantaire enquires.

“Do you have any?” Enjolras asks with a raised eyebrow and Grantaire has to admit he has a point.

“So, what the fuck am I supposed to be? Some sort of consulting Guardiola?” Grantaire asks sarcastically.

“That’s also not an incorrect assessment of the situation,” Enjolras says, just like before.

“Yeah - no. _No_. _Hell_ , no. You’re pretty but I am _not_ shaving my head or putting on a sweater vest for you. Some of us have fashion standards. Now, if you want me to, I can _maybe_ wear a french maid outfit for you, but - “

“I believe that will not be required,” Enjolras says primly, a faint blush on his cheeks. “And you can wear whatever clothes you desire.”

“Assuming this works out - you’re telling me what _you_ get out of this. What do _I_ get out of it ?” Grantaire asks, smirking lazily up at Enjolras.

Enjolras opens his mouth to reply but Grantaire waves a hand to stop him before he can speak. “One self-righteous answer about doing it for honour and country or whatever it is you prattle on about when I’m only pretending to listen and I swear to God I’m kicking you out of my room,” Grantaire says.

“I could pay you?” Enjolras suggests in a small voice.

“I’m sure you could,” Grantaire says, giving Enjolras a look that could only be described as predatory. Enjolras’ ears go delightfully pink.

“I meant - “ Enjolras takes a deep breath and looks like he has to try very hard to sound scandalized. “I _meant_ money.”

“What?” Grantaire chuckles. “You think you can, like, offer me 200 euros for my time and attention and I’ll drop everything because you batted your eyelashes at me? I’m not _that_ cheap.”

“What do you want?” Enjolras asks through gritted teeth.

“You let me campaign for you as the 2018 Ballon D’Or winner.” Before Enjolras can interrupt, Grantaire adds, “Without bitching about it.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes at him. “Why would you do that?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Partially because I think you deserve it. But mostly because I know it’ll really, really piss you off.”

“Are you really fucking serious right now?”

“No, Lupin is.” Grantaire smirks, rising up from the floor and sitting down on the bed again.

“What?” Enjolras asks.

“You know, you’re really very pretty but I don’t know if I can be friends with a man who doesn’t get Harry Potter references.”

“I don’t want to be your friend,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire immediately feels as if he’s been slapped. “Right, then,” he says in an even tone. “This has been a very enlightening evening, thank you very much for - “

“No,” Enjolras snaps, sounding frustrated. “That’s not - I don’t want to _just_ be your friend. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to want or allowed to want. But I- “ Enjolras pauses, takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his already very messy hair. “I _like_ you. But I really don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to do any of this. But I do. Like you. And I need to figure out some things and I know this whole thing is a mess but -“

“You don’t know me,” Grantaire reminds him.

“I want to,” Enjolras shrugs.

Grantaire can’t ignore the feeling of suspicion that’s been spreading through him ever since Enjolras walked through the door. “Are you just doing this because you want my help?” He asks.

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” Enjolras shouts indignantly and he’s on his feet before Grantaire even has time to process what’s happening.. “Do you think I would ever do anything like that, do you think me so inconsiderate that I would play with anyone’s feelings like that or that I would prostitute myself - “

“Well, you do have to admit - “

“What?” Enjolras snaps. “What the fuck do I have to admit? You can say yes or you say no. It’s your call. I know it’s a pretty big favor and you don’t have to do it. And whether or not you accept to do it doesn’t change anything. You can say no and it’s fine and you can say yes and it’s fine as well. But I would really like it if you said yes. God knows we could use all the help we can get.”

“You’re very zen about this whole thing,” Grantaire points out, trying to move them back to a safer topic of conversation.

“Well, that happens when Courfeyrac locks himself in a room with you and tries to give you dating advice,” Enjolras says pulling a face.

“Oh god, that’s terrifying. And you really shouldn’t take relationship advice from Courfeyrac. I’m quite sure his longest relationship is with his Gucci dealer. Or maybe with his self-tanner dealer,” Grantaire chuckles.

“Well, at least you’re amusing yourself. I was the one who had to sit there and watch him do a Powerpoint presentation about quote-unquote proper dating etiquette.”

“Couldn’t you just have wrestled him for the key?” Grantaire asks.

“He threatened to swallow it if I got within five feet of him. And then he tried to guilt trip me by saying he had watched gay porn for me,” Enjolras says, shaking his head.

“Courfeyrac definitely has too much free time.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says. He checks his watch. “I really should be with the rest of the team. I’m sorry about our plans,” he says, and for what it’s worth he does sound sorry. “Maybe in our next free day? Or free days, considering our next match will probably be our last.”

He sounds defeated. And young and vulnerable. Like someone stole his puppy. Grantaire absolutely hates it.

“Enjolras,” he says quietly. “Give me one good reason why I should do this. Please. Just one good reason and I’ll do it.”

“There isn’t one,” Enjolras says. “But I really wish you would.” A beat. “ _Please_.”

In the end, that’s all it takes.

“Fine,” Grantaire concedes. “ _Fine_ , I’ll do it. But if Courfeyrac says one word about gay porn to me I am out of there.”

“Deal,” Enjolras says and smiles, broad and unguarded, and Grantaire thinks there’s nothing he wouldn’t to keep that smile on Enjolras’ face.

“I really should go,” Enjolras says with regret. His hand grazes Grantaire’s should as he walks towards the door and Grantaire turns to watch him go. “Valjean will call you. Speaking of which - I think you’re getting a roommate.”

“Dude, I am _not_ moving in with Cosette’s dad for you.”

“Whoever told you you were funny did the world a disservice,” Enjolras says. “I meant Valjean’s daughter. She’s flying up to Russia. She said that if her father is going to be the main coach then she wants to be here.”

“Oh god, what did I ever do to the world?” Grantaire complains. “She’ll drink all my alcohol, hide all my coffee and try to talk me into being _polite_.”

Enjolras snorts and opens the door.

“By the way,” Enjolras says, turning back to stare at Grantaire’s over his shoulder one last time. “Remus Lupin. Sirius Black. Prisoner of Azkaban. For the record, I did understand that reference.”

“You - you,” Grantaire stutters. “You filthy, filthy liar. I _trusted_ you. How could you do this to me?”

“You’re cute when you think you’re being witty and other people aren’t getting it,” Enjolras says with a shrug.

“Wait,” Grantaire says, his voice lowering with suspicion. “Does this mean you understood the rest of my pop culture references? I feel like my entire life is a lie.”

“You may never know it,” Enjolras says smugly.

“You _absolute_ asshole,” Grantaire whines, falling face down into the bed, making half of the pile of clothes collapse on top of him. “I’ll be questioning every single conversation I’ve ever had with you now.”

“Good. It can’t hurt to keep you on your toes,” Enjolras says, with a smug grin on his face. “It’s about time you learnt that I’m a man of many layers.”

“Yes,” Grantaire agrees, without looking at him. “Just like an onion, you are. You know, this could be your stage name for when you take your stand-up show on the road. It has a nice ring to it and all. _Onionjolras_.”

“You are such an idiot,” Enjolras says, but his voice sounds very fond. When he walks out of the room, closing the door behind him, Grantaire, who’s still feeling completely stunned,  can hear his laughter all the way down the corridor.

What _the fuck_ did he just agree to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and added some football notes for non-football fans in the previous chapters. 
> 
> As far as this chapter is concerned:  
> \- Suarez is a football player who once bit another player during a match.  
> \- The Ballon D'Or is the most prestigeous award a football player can get.  
> \- Grantaire's tactics conversation is pretty much impossible to explain to non-football fans without several powerpoint presentations so basically they were doing a thing, Grantaire told Enjolras the thing was stupid and that they should do another thing.   
> \- World Cup 2010 France really did rise up against their coach and players refused to train but it didn't work out quite so well for them.
> 
> I think everything else is pretty self-explanatory but let me know if you any other explanations <3
> 
> Also, there is somehow art for this now (<333333333333333), which can be found [here](http://crazygreenflamingo.tumblr.com/post/54356882032/so-this-awesome-thing-just-updated-and-despite-the).
> 
> I have also changed my tumblr url and can now be found [here](http://coolfeyrad.tumblr.com) and of course you are always welcome to come say hi.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I miss how things used to be, sometimes. In the youth teams, that is,” he adds at Grantaire’s questioning glance. “I love my job and I know that there there are millions of people who would give up everything for the same chance. But I don’t enjoy the press or the limitations and choices that come with it. And it’s a great honour to wear the armband and I wouldn’t have it any other way, but sometimes it’s exhausting. And you always have to keep it together and never let people know how hard it is. It’s just draining.” He chooses that moment to interlace his fingers with Grantaire’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [Mariana](http://joeyliebgott.tumblr.com/), who is lovely and [Nat](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/), who has burst in my life like the music of angels, the light of the sun. 
> 
> [Jen](http://tell-themstories.tumblr.com/), who is a gift, talked me out of a truly terrible last line and suggested the one I ended up using.

Later that same day, Grantaire meets Valjean in the hotel France is staying at and, unfortunately for him, it appears that he is doomed to like anyone associated with the French team once he's had the misfortune of meeting them.

He had been crossing his fingers that he could at least be generally irritated by Valjean's entire existence - football coaches are usually terribly self-important assholes - but given what Cosette had told him about the man and how he’d taken care of her after her mother died, Grantaire was aware that trying to dislike him would probably be a losing battle. Even if he does usually excel at disliking people.

It helps that Valjean doesn’t appear to be as delusional as Enjolras, at least as far France’s chances in the World Cup are concerned. He seems intent on taking things one match at a time and focusing on their next opponent with very little regards as to what may happen after that. When Grantaire asked what he had been thinking when he’d accepted to take on a job that would probably prove to be career suicide, he’d only shrugged and said someone had to do it and he’d rather it was someone who knew the team well.

Grantaire supposes it isn’t Valjean’s fault that the latest ridiculousness to come from the French camp included getting rid of their (admittedly terrible) coach mid-tournament and putting him in charge of the team, regardless of his lack of experience as a main coach. And it was probably the best they could’ve done given the constraints, even though it still doesn’t magically mean that France has a chance.

The team really could have done worse. Valjean isn’t a bad man. A serious man, maybe, but he means well and Grantaire somehow finds it surprisingly easy to talk to him and get his ideas across when he sat down with the man.

And also knowing how much Cosette likes him certainly doesn’t hurt.

“So,” Grantaire says by the end of their meeting, once they’ve reached an agreement about the best way to try to take on Australia. “You do realize that by accepting the job you basically just adopted a football-playing litter of kittens?”

Valjean grins. “I thought the running comparison was chicken?”

Grantaire shrugs, leaning back on his seat. “Cats, chicken, it’s all the same in the end. Well, unless you’re cooking. Than you should definitely be able to tell the difference between cats and chicken. Or unless you want a pet - you’d look ridiculous if you put a leash on a chicken. Though I suppose you don’t really put a leash on a cat, either, so this whole conversation probably makes no sense.”

Valjean blinks at him. “You’re a very weird sort of person,” he says finally. “I can see why Enjolras likes you.”

Grantaire tries to fight the flush rising up on his cheeks. He fails miserably. Luckily for him, Valjean doesn’t seem inclined to comment on it.

“Well,” Grantaire says, trying to keep a steady voice and mostly succeeding. “If this is all you want for now- “

"I'm actually surprised he talked you into this," Valjean says, interrupting him. "Not that I'm complaining, of course, but this doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you'd usually do."

"It isn't," Grantaire agrees with a shrug. "But everyone needs a hobby, right? Besides, Enjolras can be very annoying when he wants something. It's easier to say yes and just go along with it."

"Yes, Enjolras can be a very persuasive young man. When he wants to be," Valjean breathes out thoughtfully, but he doesn’t press it any further. “Thanks for all the help, anyway.”

Grantaire sighs, only half paying attention to his surroundings. He shakes Valjean’s hand and makes his way out of the room he’s using as an office in the bottommost floor of the hotel. He heads for the nearest elevator and it’s only after he’s pressed the button to call it that he reaches for his phone and sees that he’s got a new text message. He’s all too pleased to see it’s from Enjolras.

 _I am alone_ , it reads, _all dreadfully alone._ _And I appear to have misplaced my shirt. Woops. 5th floor, apartment 10A, come find me xoxo gossip enjolras._

 _Hello there, Courfeyrac,_ Grantaire texts back. _Has no one taught you that stealing is wrong?_

 _Not my fault Enjolras leaves his stuff lying around,_ is the prompt reply. _But seriously, poor Enjolras is all alone and moping. Go say hi._

Grantaire frowns. _Why is he moping?_

 _Because someone stole his phone_ , Courfeyrac replies, _Really, haven’t you been paying any attention to me? I am wounded, Grantaire! Wounded!_

The elevator finally arrives and Grantaire briefly considers his options, before resignedly pressing the 5th floor button.

 _Fine_ , he texts Enjolras’ phone, _But only b/c he’ll want to kill you once he realizes that his phone has been stolen and the team needs you too much for that. Especially now that I am somehow emotionally invested in this mess._

 _That’s okay,_ Courfeyrac says _. We’ve all done stupid shit to get laid. Pseudo-managing a football team is hardly the most embarrassing thing you could do. I once babysat a litter of kittens to get a girl to go out with me._

Grantaire really doesn’t want to ask, but his curiosity gets the best of him. _How did that work out for you?_

 _Got laid,_ Courfeyrac says _. But then she broke up with me because I wouldn’t give the kittens back. So now I have seven kittens that I named after the Snow White dwarves <3333_

Grantaire sighs, because _of course_ he did.

The elevator doors finally open on the fifth floor and he quickly types back, _You’re a weird one, aren’t you?_

 _No,_ Courfeyrac says _, I’m just adorable._

Grantaire snorts, stepping out of the elevator and straight against someone’s very warm and muscled chest.

“Um,” he says, looking up to find himself staring at approximately 6’5’’ of a very disgruntled looking Bahorel. He hadn’t had the chance to meet him yet, but the overall being wider than a door thing is a dead giveaway. “You can’t kill me.”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Bahorel says, and the unspoken _yet_ is audible in his words. “You’re Grantaire, aren’t you?”

“I’m also an Aquarius who enjoys long walks on the beach,” Grantaire informs him. He steps back to stare at him and his eyes zero in on Bahorel’s rubber gloved hands. “Why are you wearing rubber gloves?”

“Patience, young Grasshopper,” Bahorel says. “Come by my room in a bit and you will know.”

“Dude, two things,” Grantaire says. “A) if you are hitting on me, thanks but no thanks. And b) if you killed someone, you better cut the body up and eat it because if you get arrested and I need to find another centre-back then _I_ will kill you myself.”

Bahorel raises his hands, looking like he’s aiming for innocence but missing it by about a mile and a handful of arm muscles. “You’re not my type, I’m afraid. And I have committed no crimes today. Except perhaps a fashion crime, but that was a consensual one. Go say hi to Enjolras now, will you?”

He pats Grantaire’s shoulder absent-mindedly and saunters his way down the corridor.

“You meet the weirdest people in this line of work,” Grantaire muses for the benefit of the empty corridor, shaking his head as he searches for Enjolras’ room.

It doesn’t take him that long to find it and, once he does, all it takes is a quiet tap on the door for Enjolras to reply, “It’s open.”

Grantaire turns the doorknob and opens the door, not missing the way Enjolras’ eyes widen in surprise and the corners of his mouth turn almost imperceptibly up when he sees it’s Grantaire. It’s a simple bedroom, very tidy and scarcely decorated, with Enjolras currently occupying one of the two twin beds. It’s the one closest to the open window and Enjolras is leaning against the headboard, with long legs stretched out in front of him and a book resting on his lap.

Grantaire also doesn’t miss the fact that the book is The Hobbit. Time to be obnoxious. “Reading Messi’s biography, are we?” he asks.

“I will throw you out of the window,” Enjolras says cheerfully, but then his expression softens and his smile sends something very warm skittering through Grantaire’s chest. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.” Grantaire shrugs and closes the door behind him. “Had a meeting with Valjean. Then I got a text from you promising shirtlessness.”

“But I’m not shirtless,” Enjolras says with a frown. “And, er - I didn’t text you. Courfeyrac stole my phone.”

“I’m guessing that happens a lot?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras cringes. “Sometimes.” He stares at Grantaire, still hovering by the door and adds, “You can sit down too, you know. I won’t bite.”

“What if I ask nicely?” Grantaire asks, raising an eyebrow but he pads across the room and plops himself down in the general vicinity of Enjolras left knee.

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything about Grantaire’s previous comment. Instead, he  turns serious, unblinking eyes on Grantaire. “How did the meeting go?” he asks.

“Oh, you know,” Grantaire says in a dismissive tone of voie. “Same old, same old. Eleven dudes chasing a ball while other eleven dudes try to stop them from scoring. And then the same dudes change places. Football is surprisingly easy when it comes right down to it. Also, I forbade Bahorel to kill Courfeyrac. Or anyone else, for that matter. Unless he’s sure he won’t get caught, in which case murder is allowed if it doesn’t fuck with my plans for the team.”

“Did you like Bahorel?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire pauses, giving it some thought. “I guess. Though I still think this team is completely off their collective rocket.”

“You’ve only met three of us,” Enjolras points out. “And no one’s as bad as Courfeyrac.”

“Aw,” Grantaire coos. “You really like him, don’t you?”

“He’s one of my best friends,” Enjolras replies. “Which doesn’t mean I don’t want to throw him out of the window sometimes. Particularly when he starts giving out unwarranted dating advice.”

“I’ve read his interviews,” Grantaire confesses. “I think anyone would want to throw him out of the window any time he starts giving out dating advice. I mean, I just heard the kitten story - “

“Trust me, everyone has heard the kitten story.” He shudders. “I do not get people’s obsession with cats.”

Grantaire tilts his head to the side. It makes sense that Enjolras isn’t a cat person, he supposes. “Dog person, then?”

“Dogs don’t like me, either. I had a turtle once, but it ran away,” He sounds so sad about it that Grantaire bites his lip to stop himself from making any comment on the unlikeliness of a turtle running away from _anything_. “I called it Turtle. Courfeyrac called it Hulk.”

Grantaire can’t stop a chuckle from escaping his lips as he pictures Enjolras traipsing through a meadow with a tiny turtle on a leash trailing behind him. “You didn’t call it Messi? They _are_ approximately the same height.”

“I can still throw you out of my room, you know?” Enjolras replies.

“Nah, you won’t,” Grantaire says confidently. “Who would you bitch to if I wasn’t here? You’re the captain, you can’t really lose your shit in front of the rest of the team, can you?” He tries to make his voice as understanding as possible and is rewarded by a tight smile, though one that is quickly replaced by a frown.

“Why are you doing this?” Enjolras asks. “You’ve made it quite clear that you don’t care, I don’t understand - “

“Enjolras,” Grantaire interrupts. “I actually do have a life outside of football. I read. I... do yoga. I dress like a hipster on occasion. I have a lot of occupations and hobbies and yet here I am, in the middle of the fucking French hotel, after spending the past two hours of my life talking to your coach, instead of staying at my own hotel catching up on my sleep - “

“You woke up at 3PM!” Enjolras stutters indignantly.

“Shush,” Grantaire says. “I am here, instead of catching up on my sleep, just like I was saying. I could be getting a tattoo or making fun of Spanish fans because their tiki-taka loving asses are already out of the tournament. And yet, here I am.”

“So you do care about France.”

“No,” Grantaire says with a shrug. “I don’t give a fuck about France. France will win or France will lose and time will go by and two years from now we will be here again and it won’t have mattered.”

“Then why - “

“Because I don’t care about France.” Grantaire waits a beat. “But I do care about you.” He shifts awkwardly on the bed. “And _you_ care about France, so here I am.”

Enjolras pats Grantaire’s knee and Grantaire can feel the warmth seeping through his pants. He wonders what Enjolras’ hands would feel like against his skin, without a layer of clothing in the way.

“I’d rather you were doing it because you thought it was the right thing,” Enjolras says softly. “But thank you all the same.”

His eyes are very soft and his hand is very warm and Grantaire is very fucked. “How are you?” he asks, aiming for nonchalance.

Enjolras hesitates, before answering. “I’m alright.”

It’s a good answer. It’s a pity it’s complete bullshit.

“That’s nice,” Grantaire mocks, but makes an effort to keep his voice kind. “How are you really? You don’t always have to be _the_ Enjolras, you know? Not with me, at least.”

Enjolras smiles gratefully. His hand is still on Grantaire’s knee. “I’m tired. I’m so, _so_ tired. I could sleep for an year.”

“It’s tough to be a God, then?” Grantaire asks, and pats Enjolras’ hand. Enjolras rewards him with a soft smile and Grantaire keeps his hand on top of Enjolras’.

“I miss how things used to be, sometimes. In the youth teams, that is,” he adds at Grantaire’s questioning glance. “I love my job and I know that there there are millions of people who would give up everything for the same chance. But I don’t enjoy the press or the limitations and choices that come with it. And it’s a great honour to wear the armband and I wouldn’t have it any other way, but sometimes it’s exhausting. And you always have to keep it together and never let people know how hard it is. It’s just draining.” He chooses that moment to interlace his fingers with Grantaire’s.

Grantaire gulps before squeezing Enjolras’ hand and says, “I still think you’re an overprivileged prat.”

He’s surprised at how easy to is, to sit here with Enjolras, holding his hand. He could get used to it, and that probably wouldn’t be a very smart life choice.

“That’s alright.” Enjolras smiles gently. “I will argue about the prat part, of course, but I am a very overprivileged person. But there are still a lot of restrictions that come with my career. But even if there weren’t, even if that wasn’t an issue, it’s still so, so tiring. Everyone’s looking at you, expecting you to keep it together and I’m glad to, most of the time, but sometimes I just…” He trails off, seemingly at a loss for words.

Grantaire sighs, rubbing his thumb across the back of Enjolras’ hand. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras says with a shrug. “I’m sure I’ll feel better when I’m lifting the World Cup.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says with a frown. “Just make sure to turn off your laptop when you’re done playing FIFA 2018, yeah?”

“I will kick you,” Enjolras threatens half-heartedly.

“Now, see, you can’t kick me because - “ Grantaire starts to say, but his words are cut short when Courfeyrac and Bahorel burst into the room, leaving both him and Enjolras completely speechless.

Grantaire notices with a little surge of pleasure that Enjolras doesn’t let go of his hand. Though he supposes it doesn’t necessarily mean anything and Enjolras may just as paralyzed with terror as Grantaire is, staring in horror at the thing that used to be Courfeyrac’s hair.

“I - “ Enjolras starts, thinks better of it, shakes his hand, and closes his mouth again.

“You don’t like the colour?” Bahorel asks.

“Two options, the way I see it,” Courfeyrac replies, tugging on a soft-looking curl of bleached blond hair. A soft-looking curl of bleached blond hair that matches the rest of the soft-looking bleached blond hair on top of his head. “One: he wants to cry because I am now the hottest blond in the team. Two, he’s trying very, very hard not to giggle himself silly. Either way, totally worth it.”

“Or maybe he just thinks you look ridiculous,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes.

Grantaire blinks at Courfeyrac, who throws himself down on his own bed. Bahorel snorts at the three of them. “I know I went along with this, but I agree with Enjolras. You do look ridiculous, Courfeyrac,” he says, and Grantaire is inclined to agree.

“What I don’t get,” Grantaire says, “is _why_. Are you auditioning to play Daenerys after the World Cup is over? I thought you were just going to become a stripper.”

“Enjolras forbade me from becoming a stripper,” Courfeyrac says sadly, as he kicks off his shoes. “If I can’t be a stripper, then I shall be a Khaleesi.”

“How could you let him do this? _Why_ did you let him do this?” Grantaire asks Bahorel, who doesn’t look the slightest bit ashamed of his part in this.

“He asked me. I wanted to see it first hand so I went along with it.” He shrugs. “Besides, we both know this will make the front page of every newspaper tomorrow and we really would appreciate it if people stopped talking Javert, so it’s all for the greater good, really.”

Courfeyrac nods emphatically. “I suffer for the greater good, I really do.” He turns serious eyes on Enjolras and Grantaire. “Now,” he says, “I am but a young girl and know little of the ways of love - “

“Please shut up,” Enjolras says.

Courfeyrac ignores him. “But did we walk in to something we shouldn’t have?”

“Are you going to be quoting Daenerys every chance you have now?” Grantaire asks, sidestepping the question. It might be easier to deal with if he’d let go of Enjolras’ hand, but Enjolras is still holding on and Grantaire isn’t that inclined to let go either, if he’s being honest with himself. “Because it’s been seven years since the last Game of Thrones book came out, you’re going to run out of things to say eventually.”

“Oi,” Courfeyrac shouts. “He’s working on the next one. It can’t take that long for it to come out.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Grantaire says dismissively. “Pretty to think so. The truth is Liverpool will win the league before another book comes out.”

“Hey,” Enjolras says sharply. “Shut the fuck up. I happen to highly approve of Liverpool.”

“But you don’t highly approve of my hair?” Courfeyrac asks with sad brown eyes.

“I’m very wary of anything you do that involves hair,” Enjolras says. “And it’s not like you can blame me.“

“I think he’s still traumatized from the last time I talked him into letting me straighten his hair,” Courfeyrac confides.

“One time, that happened one time and I was drunk - “ Enjolras says defensively.

“Not my fault you can’t hold your liquor, Enjolras dear,” Courfeyrac purrs.

“You got me drunk on _purpose_.”

“Your point being?”

“I was too drunk to know what I was doing,” Enjolras snaps.

“I really don’t know what you’re complaining about. Hours,” Courfeyrac whines. “Hours spent straightening your hair. When I woke up, it was all back to normal.”

“We were in England; my hair doesn’t do well in the humidity,” Enjolras says self-consciously. “Also, you really do look completely ridiculous.”

“I am a Khaleesi of the Dothraki,” Courfeyrac says. “And I am the blood of the Dragon. And the Dragon does not look ridiculous.”

“I am biting my tongue so hard I can taste blood,” Bahorel says.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac says excitedly. “Do you think I should start referring to my Twitter followers as my Khalasar?”

“I think you should get your head checked for any serious injuries,” Enjolras replies in a very matter-of-fact tone of voice.

Courfeyrac scoffs. “Just because you are so fashionably challenged doesn’t mean the rest of us has to be. Now, I really hate to be the one to cockblock both of you two losers but we have an early morning practice tomorrow and I need my beauty sleep. If I don’t look well-rested, the bleached hair will only make me look washed-out.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes. “That’s definitely your greatest concern for the upcoming days.”

Bahorel sighs. “Off we go, then. Grantaire, I’ll walk you out,” he says and his tone brooks no arguments.

Grantaire gets up from the bed, patting Enjolras’ knee in a casual goodbye and vaguely waving at Courfeyrac.

The moment he’s out the room and the door is shut behind them, Bahorel shoves him gently against the wall. “Two things,” he breathes out. “One. I saw what I walked into. I don’t give a fuck that you’re a dude and no one else on the team does. But if you’re a dude that happens to break his heart, I can guarantee that everyone will have fucks to give. Is this understood?”

“Very much,” Grantaire says, bowing his head, and Bahorel steps back.

“Good,” he says.

“I am glad you were the one to give me ‘break his heart and I’ll break your kneecaps' speech,” Grantaire says. “As opposed to the Khaleesi in there anyway. I just couldn’t take him seriously.”

“That brings me to number two. I had nothing to do with the bleached hair as far as the press is concerned, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t dream of telling anyone,” Grantaire assures him.

Bahorel snorts, before mussing Grantaire’s hair and making his way to wherever it is his apartment is.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, and goes to find the nearest elevator, texting Cosette - who unfortunately got stuck in France and can only fly up _after_ the match - to let her know her dad is a babe.

Later, he will swear he can hear her horrified shriek all the way from Paris.

\--

In the end, Grantaire doesn’t get to watch France’s match. He’s been texting Enjolras on and off for the past three days, while the match looms closer and closer and he thinks he can read a flash of badly concealed disappointment in the blond’s texts when Grantaire tells him he’ll be covering Peru’s match instead, which is scheduled to take place at the same time as France’s game.

He sits down in front of his TV to watch the match, with his laptop settled on his lap, and a tab open to accompany France’s match as well as possible. He’d do a much better job of liveblogging their match than the guy currently assigned to do it, of course, but his editor probably thinks it’s safer to keep him away from the team and it’s not like she’s wrong.

According to what he reads, things aren’t looking that bad for France. They’re, surprisingly, not being awful (at least according to the guy covering the match) and it’s not like Peru has been sucking in their previous matches. Besides, Peru's playing exactly like Grantaire was expecting them to and liveblogging it is nowhere near as complicated as it would’ve been. And when in doubt, he supposes he can just fill up space by making ‘not a winger, a Khaleesi’ jokes to make fun of Courfeyrac’s hair, which everyone seems to have latched on in the past couple of days, regardless of what matches they happen to be covering.

Peru dominates most of the first half and by the time the 30th minute rolls around Carillo scores their first goal. France will be through if they can manage to score two goals in the following 70 minutes.

Ten minutes later, Courfeyrac scores for France and Grantaire lets a small smile stretch across his face.

He spends half-time trying to tell himself he doesn’t care, but the thought of France (and most importantly, Enjolras) going home this soon makes something very uncomfortable settle in the pit of his stomach. He paces around the room for a while and, when Enjolras scores France’s second goal fifteen minutes into the second half, he gives up and opens a tab with a stream to France’s game, alternating between that and Peru’s match, who are still holding on to a  1-0 lead. Time goes by very slowly, as both teams retreat farther and farther down their defensive halves, until Peru’s match is finally over and Grantaire waits impatiently for the ref to blow his whistle on France’s game, signaling for the end of the match and France’s advance to the next stage of the competition.

 _Congratulations on your barricade’s accomplishment_ , he texts Enjolras as soon as he hears the blessed three whistles from the referee.

Fifteen minutes later, his phone rings, the caller ID telling him it’s Enjolras.

“We won,” Enjolras says, as soon as Grantaire picks it up, his voice almost drowned by the loud shouting and cheering on the background.

“Yes,” Grantaire says. “That _is_ what I meant by congratulations on your barricade.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says softly. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Just make sure Courfeyrac doesn’t do anything even more ridiculous to his hair and we’ll be even,” Grantaire jokes.

“Right,” Enjolras says. “We’re celebrating tonight in the hotel. If you’d like to come - “

“Thank you,” Grantaire says and he wants to say yes but that doesn’t sound particularly safe for Enjolras and the question of what he’ll be doing there will be hard to explain should anyone not familiar with the team ask so he forces himself to lie. “But I have another article to write. Maybe another time?”

“Sure,” Enjolras says, sounding somewhat like a kicked puppy.

Grantaire heads to the shower, hating the world and everyone in it.

Later, much later, after he’s showered and eaten and bitched at a lot of people online, and finally settled down on the bed for some much-deserved sleep, a sharp knock on his hotel door comes to distract him.

“Go the fuck away,” he barks in its general direction.

“Would it kill you to not be an asshole sometimes?” the person on the other side says and Grantaire recognizes Enjolras’ voice. He resists the urge to facepalm as he considers that one day he will have to sit the man down and teach him all about appropriate times to annoy other people.

He rolls sleepily out of bed and staggers towards the door, not bothering to turn the lights back on.

Once he’s opened it, it’s hard to remember how to breathe. Grantaire’s room is dark and there is just enough natural light coming in from an open window that Grantaire can see the moonlight reflecting on Enjolras’ face. He looks pure and untouchable and so beautiful Grantaire’s heart seizes in his chest.

“Oh hello,” he says, leaning against the doorframe and feigning nonchalance. “We have _got_ to stop meeting like this.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply. Instead, he looks Grantaire straight in the eye, with the same fierce, fervent look he so often gets during a match and presses his lips together in a firm line.

“Are you alright?” Grantaire asks, worry clear in his voice, because even if there was a reason for Enjolras to be there - which there isn’t - being silent is definitely not normal Enjolrasian behaviour.

Enjolras twitches almost imperceptibly, something shifting in his face and suddenly he looks much younger and more vulnerable than Grantaire ever remembers seeing him. He looks at Grantaire wonderingly and Grantaire can feel, rather than see, Enjolras’ body relaxing in front of him.

He stares at Grantaire, resolve clear in his eyes, and says, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“You can’t -”

He can.

He does.

His arms reach out for Grantaire, yanking him forward in a swift movement and Grantaire goes willingly, Grantaire goes _eagerly_ and when Enjolras covers his mouth in a hungry kiss, he can feel himself melting against Enjolras’ lips.

His chest feels ready to burst and he can’t get enough air in his lungs and it’s good, it’s so, _so_ good. Their lips slide over each other and Grantaire’s fingers ache with the need to touch Enjolras somewhere, anywhere, _everywhere_ and then he realizes that Enjolras’ fingers are in the back of his neck, clutching at his hair, which must mean that touching is allowed. Finally, he lets himself wrap his arms around Enjolras’ back, bringing his hands up to grip at his shoulders and pull him closer.

Grantaire allows himself a moment to get completely lost in the kiss, to memorize the intoxicating taste of Enjolras’ mouth against his and way he smells, somehow woodsy and delicious, sighing at the feeling of Enjolras’ hands in his hair and their bodies flush against each other. He loses himself in the way Enjolras sighs against his mouth, soft and low and somehow lovingly, and he doesn’t know how long it’s been - maybe just a second, maybe an hour, maybe a lifetime - too much time and nowhere near enough and Grantaire could do this, he could keep on doing this and never do anything else in his life and it’s this realization that brings him crashing down back to Earth, it’s what forces him to remember where he is and who he’s with.

He pulls his mouth away from Enjolras, because if he doesn’t do it now he thinks he never will, and forces himself to push him away. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done.

“I - “ Enjolras flinches, all color draining from his face, apart from his lips which are still red and kiss-swollen and inviting and Grantaire makes himself look away. “Did I do something wrong? I thought - “

“No, I just - I can’t do this, Enjolras. You, me, _everything_ , I can’t. I need you to go,” he takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his hair, trying not to think of how a moment ago it had been Enjolras’ fingers there. “Right now. I need you to go right now.”

He chances a look at Enjolras, who looks lost and hurt, making Grantaire hate himself. He wants to drop to his knees in front of him and beg his forgiveness and yet knows he can’t.

“But I - “ Enjolras says, stumbling back a step. 

“Just go,” Grantaire implores.

For once, Enjolras listens, the sound of the door slamming shut echoing in the silence he leaves behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this ending, I really do.
> 
> [Come yell at me](coolfeyrad.tumblr.com/)?
> 
> And now for more lovely art:  
> \- http://flowerjolras.tumblr.com/post/60669828685/i-need-your-help-enjolras-says-at-once-but  
> \- http://flowerjolras.tumblr.com/post/60477608233/french-national-football-team-captain-enjolras


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette shrugs. “I know _you_. And unless I’m very much mistaken, this is your ‘relationships suck so I’m going to completely sabotage all of mine’ thing. So, I’m asking—boy or girl?”
> 
> “Does it really matter?”
> 
> “Yes,” she says, like it makes all the sense in the world. “If it’s a girl, I’m stealing all her shoes. If it’s a guy I’m punching him in the face. And _then_ stealing all his shoes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait between chapters, you guys.
> 
> Betaed by [Nat](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/) and [Kate](http://katefeyrac.tumblr.com/), who are lovely and stop me from murdering the English language sometimes.
> 
> Rating changed for future chapters.

The next day, he’s jolted awake by what sounds like someone trying to punch down his door. There’s something obnoxiously poking away at the edge of his mind, something he knows he must’ve forgotten. He remembers France playing their match and winning. He remembers Enjolras coming by and then—well, let’s just say he remembers what happened. He remembers starting to become very close friends with the mini-bar in his hotel room after Enjolras had left.

Everything that happened after that is sort of a haze.

But it doesn’t feel as if he’s forgotten something important that happened after he’d started drinking. It feels as if he’s forgotten something important that happened _before_ that, but he has no idea what it is.

One of these days he’s going to steal one of Cosette’s toy Time Turners and fix it so it starts working and then he’s going to kick himself for not writing this kind of shit down. And then he’ll probably give it back to Cosette, who’s going to be extremely pleased about getting a real Time Turner and stop switching his coffee with decaf and braiding his hair when he’s not looking and—

_Oh, fuck._

He forgot to pick Cosette up from the airport.

“Cosette?” He calls out, dreading the answer.

“No, it’s fucking Santa Claus,” she snaps sarcastically from the other side of the closed door. “Only I got drunk along the way and used all of your presents for target practice while I worked on my shooting.”

“You were playing with _guns_ while drunk?”

“Just open the fucking door, Grantaire,” she says and she sounds like she’s spent the best part of the night in an airport waiting for Grantaire.

“I’m not opening the door to Santa Claus,” he hisses at the door. “I’ve seen Futurama, I know how this story ends.”

“Oh, for the love of—Fine. You can open the door or I can tell the world all about how the mean journalist who so loves to tear apart their football teams still sleeps with his teddy bear.”

Fucking Cosette. He doesn’t like thunderstorms, and apparently telling her that had been a mistake. Fucking blonds. To add insult to the injury, Grantaire has to admire her resourcefulness, even though it is, in essence, an extremely low blow.

“I’m loading Twitter on my phone right now,” Cosette says sweetly. “Your call, sweetheart.”

He rolls sleepily out of a bed and staggers to a standing position. However, a sudden surge of dizziness and nausea hits him square in the stomach and he has to sit back down again. His head is also pounding and he feels like all his internal organs have declared war on each other. Alcohol is the absolute foulest thing mankind has ever invented—and that’s considering Farmville _and_ Apple products—and he’s absolutely never touching any of the stuff again.

Except vodka. Vodka is like Nutella, nothing bad ever comes out of it. Unless you count diabetes as a bad thing. But that’s probably a fair price to pay for its delicious chocolate-y goodness. But Nutella is not the point—wait, what the fuck was the point he was trying to make again?

The tiny Tequila bottles littering the nightstand answer that question for him. Alcohol is evil. Except for that part where it was almost enough to make him forget Enjolras, with his body pressed to Grantaire’s, with his hands fisted in Grantaire’s hair, with his lips that tasted like—

Alcohol is a great invention and whoever came up with it deserves a lifetime supply of the stuff, let’s leave it at that.

“Grantaire?” Cosette calls out again.

Grantaire sighs. He’d been making an effort lately, not quite to quit drinking altogether, but to cut back on it. Unfortunately, last night had been a haze of confusion and the annoying man angst that he’s _ever_ so fond of having.

Fucking Enjolras, it’s all his fucking fault anyway. Grantaire definitely did not sign up for annoyingly hot footballers kissing him when he agreed to cover the World Cup in Russia. Not that the kiss was unwelcome—quite the opposite, in fact—but there’s only so much Grantaire is prepared to take when it comes to Enjolras and that kind of thing should probably come with a warning, along with a long list exposing Enjolras’ intentions towards him.

Which, what the fuck, when the hell did he turn into a nineteenth century book heroine who needs to know people’s _intentions_?

“Grantaire?” Cosette says again, even more insistent.

Right. He gets up again and shambles towards the door, cracking it open before moving to faceplant back on the pillows without even bothering to look at Cosette.

His head seems to swim a little less when he’s lying down, at least.

“Are you alright?” Cosette asks, the frown he can’t see in her face audible in her voice.

“Just dandy. Perfect. Flawless. Why wouldn’t I be? Well, except for the hangover but you know how it goes with alcohol—one moment you’re doing the macarena in your bathtub and the other you’re crying into your toilet.”

The bed dips as Cosette sinks down beside him.

He remembers a little too late how Cosette usually has no problem seeing straight through all his bullshit. Talking to her right now probably isn’t the smartest thing he’s ever done, particularly considering how awfully hungover he is. “I’ve seen you hungover,” Cosette says. “You grumble and whine and you text me about how awful alcohol is and how you’re never doing it again.”

He dives under his pillow with his phone and quickly taps out a short message saying, ‘alcohol sucks almost as much as neymars usual choice in hairstyle pass it on’.

Cosette chuckles when her phone beeps with the message and lies down on the bed beside him.

“What’s up?” she asks, sounding worried. “I must’ve texted you like twelve times last night to see where you were and you ignored me completely. You usually tell me to fuck off, at least. And that last text message wasn’t even funny. I know being an unbearable asshole is usually your thing, but at least you’re a _funny_ unbearable asshole. Like Mourinho, only with better hair. What’s wrong?”

Grantaire sighs and peeks out one eye from under the pillow to try to glare at her. Her long, blonde hair is pulled up in a neat ponytail and she’s wearing no make-up except for her nails, which have been painted to match the French flag. Grantaire gags, but he can’t be sure if it’s the sight or simply the copious amounts of tequila he consumed the previous night after Enjolras left.

“There was a thing,” he says, head still mostly hidden under the pillow.

“Did you get punched again?” Cosette asks. “Is this because you said that Gareth Bale was like the Twilight to Ronaldo’s Harry Potter? Because I keep telling you not to be so mean to people, it’s your own fault for not listening to me.”

Grantaire snorts. “The only people who care about that are the Welsh. So, in the parallel universe where Wales actually does something as impressive as qualifying for World Cups, sure. Now, in this universe? Not so much.” He tries to shrug, even though it’s almost impossible seeing as his head is still buried under the pillow. “No, it was a—look, it was just a thing. There was a thing. And now there isn’t. It’s not a problem anymore.”

Cosette hums and for a while everything is blissfully quiet. Then she speaks again, quietly, “Boy or girl?”

“What?” Grantaire gasps.

She shrugs. “I know _you_. And unless I’m very much mistaken, this is your ‘relationships suck so I’m going to completely sabotage all of mine’ thing. So, I’m asking—boy or girl?”

“Does it really matter?”

“Yes,” Cosette says, like it makes all the sense in the world. “If it’s a girl, I’m stealing all her shoes. If it’s a guy I’m punching him in the face. And _then_ stealing all his shoes.”

Grantaire chuckles, even though he doesn’t feel like laughing at all. “It’s a boy. But for all it’s worth, I’m probably the one you should be punching.”

“You’re _always_ the one I should be punching,” Cosette says quietly and Grantaire has to concede she may have a point. “But it’s my duty as your friend to punch other people for you. Or to steal their shoes. Or both. I’m not that picky myself.”

“Just like it’s your job to have a scandalous lesbian affair with them after we break up?”

“Oh goodie, we’ve reached that point where you pretend you and Éponine actually had a relationship, rather than, you know, just having a frankly abnormal amount of sex with each other while insulting her father.”

“Insulting one’s parents during sex is everything good relationships are built on. Just like spectacular sex. You should try it sometimes,” he suggests. “Besides, everyone hates Éponine’s parents—well, everyone hates Éponine’s father, at least. I’m quite sure it’s part of the rules of football. That, and thinking the Americans should just stick to the sports they know. Which is… er, hitting balls with a bat? Carrying a ball in their hands for 90% of the time and then calling it football?”

“You know, in the beginning football was only used to mean a sport that was played on foot rather than on a horse, so it’s not like they’re wrong—”

“I am way, way too hungover for this conversation, Cosette.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. “Fine, then. Back to the previous conversation, I’m sorry but I think I missed the memo informing me that I should hate my parents.” She sits up again. “Also, in my defense, I’d also like to point out that you had broken up with her long before the both of us ever—”

“Free reign to do anything you wanted with her, Cosette, that’s what I always said,” Grantaire says and means it. He and Éponine had been good friends and lovers, yes, but hardly anything more than that. “Why did you two break-up, anyway? Last I heard you were making plans to dismantle patriarchy together.”

“Oh, this and that,” she says mysteriously. “I suppose I want to talk about it as much as you want to talk about this mysterious boy of yours.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I still think you look too sad. Do you want to do something fun?” she asks, throwing herself down on top of him and Grantaire can’t help but hiss at the impact. “Want to go to Taco Bell?”

Grantaire shoves her off of him and then removes the pillow from the top of his head and hits her with it. “You are never watching that movie again. Ever.”

“Not my fault the actress playing Karen is really, really hot,” Cosette says, poking him with her elbow.

“You just like her because she looks like you.”

“That is true, yes.” Cosette stretches across the bed to press a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek before getting up to leave. She turns back to stare at Grantaire one last time. “If you ever want to talk—and I’m not saying you should, or you have to—but if you do, then I’m right here. You know that, right?”

“Thanks, Cosette,” Grantaire says and rolls down back to sleep.

He spends the rest of the day in bed trying not to think of Enjolras and no one comes to bother him. It annoys him more than it should.

—-

The next few days are weird. He’s still trying very hard not to think of Enjolras or The Kiss (using capital letters in his mind seems appropriate, somehow) but now that France is sucking slightly less and through to the next stage of the competition everyone wants to fucking talk about it. Grantaire doesn’t want to talk about it or think about it and has no interest whatsoever in writing about it but he’s as much of a corporate whore as anyone else so writing about it it is. Objectively, it’s not hard to cover. France has a new game, Holland this time, and no one can afford to make any mistake. They can either win, and go through to the quarter-finals, or they can lose and get on the fastest plane back to either baguettes or blissfully legal drugs. Grantaire would still bet good money on the latter but now that he doesn’t have Enjolras to annoy he’s not quite as invested in bitching about the French team.

It’s weird, this thing with Enjolras. The thing he wants to do the most? Talk to Enjolras. The last thing he wants to do? Also talk to Enjolras. Choosing not to talk to Enjolras seems safer, somehow, because Grantaire has no idea what he’d say or do if he did see Enjolras face to face, so the alternative is to call Valjean and tell him Grantaire’s come down with something extremely contagious and can’t meet him in person. There’s something about Valjean’s voice when he picks up the phone, that sounds clipped and slightly off that makes Grantaire wonder just how much the other man knows about his _thing_ with Enjolras.

Valjean doesn’t bring it up, though, and Grantaire’s too much of a coward to bring it up himself, even though he’s desperate to know how Enjolras is doing, if he’s been having as much trouble falling asleep as Grantaire, if he can still feel Grantaire’s hands on him or feel the lingering taste of their kiss the way Grantaire does, if—fuck, no, that’s melodramatic as fuck and Grantaire refuses to be here for that bullshit. What he means to say is that he wonders who Enjolras has to make fun of him. Much better phrasing that way.. But no, that’s still not the fucking point. The fucking point is that Valjean shouldn’t have to answer those questions and Grantaire supposes he has no right to know the answer to them, even if that wasn’t the case.

They focus on the match instead, calling each other often and e-mailing back and forth. Holland isn’t the worst adversary France could find—it’s not the _easiest_ they could get, either, because they did make it this far by being number one in their group, but they’ve had a shitty qualification stage and their defense may actually manage to be worse than France’s—but then again, the only thing worse than the French defense is probably the French defense _with_ platinum blond hair.

Grantaire is actually left with the impression that France may have a chance, before viciously trying to quench that feeling. He can’t help but wonder how Enjolras feels about it all and if he also thinks that France can win—but to be fair, Enjolras seems to think that about every match they play. Grantaire kicks himself yet again, because how Enjolras feels about anything, from football to the sociocultural implications of sending dogs into space is just another thing that’s none of his business anymore.

And then something weird happens the day before the match.

He’s technically been out all day interviewing the Irish team (though in reality most of his time was spent drinking with the Irish fans) and he’s hovering on the general vicinity of tipsy when he returns to his hotel and staggers straight into Combeferre in the hotel lobby.

“You’re Grantaire,” the other man says. He looks tired and slimmer than he does on TV, hot in a sexy librarian sort of way if that’s your thing. It isn’t Grantaire’s thing—what with his thing apparently being unbearable assholes and all—but he’s still a very attractive man. He’s also one of Enjolras’ best friends, along with The Mother of Dragons or whatever Courfeyrac is calling himself nowadays, so his presence really probably doesn’t bode well for Grantaire. Unless Combeferre is having a secret affair with someone, but that’s none of Grantaire’s business. Unless of course, his secret affair is with Cosette, in which case Grantaire has a lot of questions to ask. He doesn’t know which ones, yet, but he’s sure some ought to come to him sooner or later.

“Are you dating Cosette?” Grantaire blurts out.

“What?” Combeferre gapes at him. “I don’t even know who that is, what—”

“Which is what you’d say if you were having an affair with her.”

“Are you alright? Wait, no, don’t answer that.” He waves a hand dismissively. “You’re Grantaire, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m—well, _yes_. But—”

“You’re early,” Combeferre says suspiciously.

Which—what? How the hell did Combeferre know what time Grantaire was supposed to come back to the hotel?

“What are you doing here?” Grantaire asks..

“Funny story,” Combeferre says. “Fortunately, it’s not mine to tell. Just tell him I’m waiting outside, will you?”

“ _Him_?

“For all it matters,” Combeferre says quietly. “I think he’s being ridiculous. But as with most things, it’s just easier to go along with him.”

“Enjolras is here?”

“That’s not—right, I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I believe Bahorel had warned you not to hurt Enjolras.”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean—”

Combeferre tilts his head to the side, staring fixedly at Grantaire. He’s quiet for a moment, as if weighing every cell in Grantaire’s body and trying to arrive at some sort of conclusion. After a moment, he shrugs and asks, “Would you like to have a drink sometime?”. Really, what the fuck is wrong with this team, ever since Grantaire came here he’s been kissed by one, got told by another one that he’s pretty, and now Combeferre is asking him out for drinks.

“Why is team so intent on hitting on me? Is this the team’s thing? Is this the motto—be the John Terry you want to see in the world?”

“What—”

“Now, don’t get me wrong,” Grantaire assures. “I’m all for accepting the John Terrys we think we deserve but this is really weird.”

“I’m not hitting on you,” Combeferre says pointedly, frowning at Grantaire. “I just thought—”

Enjolras. He’d thought Enjolras. “I know what you thought. And it’d be easier if you were. Hitting on me, that is,” Grantaire says, running a hand through his hair. .

Combeferre blinks at him. “You’re a very weird sort of person, did you know that? I think I can see why Enjolras liked you.”

Grantaire can’t help but notice the choice in verb tense. He supposes it’s his own damn fault for fucking up in the first place.

“Look, about Enjolras—” he starts, having no idea how to finish that sentence.

“It’s okay,” Combeferre interrupts. “Or, well, it’s not but…” He shrugs.

Grantaire is extremely confused about what’s going on. After Bahorel’s ‘hurt him and I hurt you’ speech, he had been expecting much worse from Combeferre if he ever ran into him.

But apparently Combeferre isn’t done talking yet. “Courfeyrac has told me a lot about you. As Enjolras’ best friend, I have one thing to tell you,” he says.

Grantaire’s heart hammers in his chest. “What?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Combeferre says, enunciating every syllable very silently, as if speaking to a small child.

Then he’s walking out of the hotel and Grantaire has no idea what just happened. Is the entire team on drugs? Was that somehow the requirement for getting a call-up? Is this just another one of FIFA’s evil plans, to oppress those who are _not_ on drugs? Is it—

He can hear clucking as he heads to his hotel room. Why the fuck can he hear clucking as he heads to his hotel room?

He almost falls to the floor when he opens the door and is greeted by an explosion of chickens inside his room. They’re on top of the bed, on the desk, on the couch, by the window, in the drawers. A particularly tiny pair appears to have taken up camp inside of one of his shoes.

His hearts stops beating for a moment because he has no idea how he’s supposed to get rid of these many chickens. Then his brain makes sense of what he’s seeing and he heaves the greatest sigh of relief anyone in the world has ever heave (or at least the greatest sigh of relieve the world has ever seen ever since that time Messi promised never to take his shirt off in public again—and really, that was a really great day for all football fans all around).

The chickens aren’t real. They’re toy chickens. He can deal with toy chickens. It doesn’t explain the clucking, though.

“What the fuck?” he asks to the empty air.

“Cluck?” the empty air replies, and it’s a tiny breath of a thing, completely unlike the loud, group clucking he’d been hearing.

“You’re late,” Courfeyrac’s voice replies and _what the fuck?_

“What the fuck?” Grantaire says again, because it feels like the kind of thing he should be saying a lot today.

The swiveling black chair by the window turns very slowly around and Courfeyrac’s wickedly smiling face, along with the Khaleesi hair, is revealed. He appears to be stroking two tiny _live_ chickens on his lap. That explains the quiet clucking, at least. Grantaire wonders about every single choice he ever made that brought him to this precise moment in time. He also wants to either cry or punch Courfeyrac in the face. Probably both. It’s very hard to settle on one right now.

“Okay, number one: _why_? Number two: how? Number three: _why_?” he asks.

“You hurt Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says and his voice sounds not quite as warm as it usually does. “This is revenge. For fucking with our best friend.”

Grantaire can’t talk, which is probably a good thing. He isn’t sure what he’d even say if he could.

One of the chickens on Courfeyrac’s lap turns its head to nibble lightly at his fingers. Courfeyrac pets its head gently and doesn’t resist cooing at them for a moment. Grantaire wants to make fun of him, he really does, but they really are incredibly fluffy and cute—the chickens, not Courfeyrac.

“This is actually not the original plan—the original plan included Bahorel and you getting your ass handed to you. And you know how Bahorel is around the weight of a very fit medium-sized elephant .”

Grantaire isn’t sure getting his ass handed to him wouldn’t be preferable to having his bedroom filled with chicken. “I—” he tries to speak. Fails completely. Tries again, “But _..._?”

“After that, the original plan obviously involved live chickens—”

“Of course it did,” Grantaire mutters to himself.

“—But it would be too cruel to shove that many live chickens inside a hotel room. So we got you stuffed chickens and I downloaded the sound of hundreds of chickens clucking to my phone as your ‘welcome back’ song.”

“How?” Grantaire asks, voice barely above a whisper.

He has to admit it’s a great prank, as far as pranks go and there’s probably a lot of poetic justice involved in this. He still wants to punch Courfeyrac.

 “Combeferre masterminded, Bahorel carried, I charmed any hotel employers who asked us what the fuck we were doing with these many toy chicken.”

“No, but seriously—how?”

“We’re very rich, we’re very famous, and I’m _very_ pretty. I’m surprised hotel staff wasn’t falling all over themselves to carry them for us, to be honest.”

Grantaire narrows his eyes at Courfeyrac. “But what about the live ones in your lap?”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says, as if surprised that Grantaire even noticed. “They’re so cute I just couldn’t _not_ adopt them. But then I remembered I have cats, so this was probably not a good idea. So I guess you’re a daddy now, congratulations!”

“What?” Grantaire asks, because he is not sober enough to be forced into chicken adoption by Courfeyrac.

“Oh yes,” Courfeyrac says. “I’d do it myself if I could, but I can’t and this _really_ is all your fault.”

“But—”

“Shut up,” Courfeyrac says, and there’s a hint of ice in his voice that Grantaire is not used to, not even from interviews when he’s doing his best to sound aloof and distant. The absolute worst part is just how much Grantaire knows he deserves it. “Now,” Courfeyrac continues, “I’m not usually very good at the ‘being serious thing’ so I’m going to keep it simple and straight to the point: You’re being an idiot. _Stop_ it.”

“But—”

“Shut up and _fix_ it. Because I am _done_ with the sexual tension and the moping and the listening to Adele crying while it rains outside.”

Grantaire snorts at this. “Why would Enjolras be listening to Adele? This is Enjolras we are talking about, right? Not you.”

“Well, no,” Courfeyrac concedes. “That’s translating Enjolras behavior to normal person behavior. He’s just been… you know… brooding. He broods a lot. Moping, like. And glaring. There is always a lot of glaring as far as Enjolras is concerned.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, hating himself a little bit.

“I probably should be going,” Courfeyrac says. getting up from the chair and leaving the two chicks he’d had on his lap on top of the chair. They’re adorably yellow and fluffy and Grantaire really wants to pet them. For comfort.

“Just think about maybe not being an idiot, okay?” Courfeyrac says, still in a serious tone. “Look, if you just don’t want him, then it’s fine but I got the feeling that there was a lot more than that when I first met you too.”

“There was,” Grantaire agrees quietly. No point in lying to Courfeyrac anyway. “But there is—Look, even leaving aside the fact that I’m not good at relationships or that I’m an asshole, we still argue about _everything_.”

“No,” Courfeyrac corrects. “You argue about everything _football_ related.”

“That’s because we haven’t even had time to talk about other things,” Grantaire sputters indignantly. “I’m sure we’ll have no problem finding a long list of things to have disagreements over.”

Courfeyrac shrugs, clearly unworried. “Be that as it may,” he allows, “It’s okay if you don’t like him enough or if you don’t think being with him would be worth the price you’d have to pay for it. But just—Don’t give up on a potential good thing just because you’re too scared to take it or because you’re preemptively protecting yourself because you think it might end up spectacularly bad and you’ll end up getting hurt. That’s just called being a coward.”

 “I’m not being a coward,” Grantaire snaps.

“Yes, you are,” Courfeyrac says. His eyes bore straight into Grantaire’s. “And you’re hurting my best friend because of it, because you’re too afraid of getting hurt. And that’s such a sad way to go through life, always being too afraid to go for what you really want. I mean, it’s almost as sad as that one time I accidentally ran out of glitter and couldn’t glitterbomb Combeferre for his birthday. But it’s your call, I guess.”

Then he’s out of the door and Grantaire sinks low into the bed, having no idea what to do about both the self-righteous, blond-shaped ache in his chest and the high number of chickens in his bedroom.

—-

Cosette laughs for five minutes straight when she learns of what happened to Grantaire’s room. Grantaire really can’t stand her sometimes.

“Aren’t you supposed to be nice?” he asks, when they’re sitting down on the corridor leaning against the door just outside his room.

“Sorry, left my halo at home,” she says sweetly. “What are you going to do?”

“Close my eyes and hope they go away? Lean back and think of stuffed bird flu?”

“Cluck,” a pathetic whine comes from his shirt pocket. He supposes the audience participation is his own fault for not wanting to leave them alone to look after themselves.

“They really are cute,” Cosette says, looking as if she’s one well-placed cluck away from signing up as chicken co-parent with Grantaire.

“I’m still going to kill Courfeyrac,” he whines.

“I think they were just saying thanks. You know, for the match,” she says because she doesn’t know about Enjolras.

“Please ask your father to tell them that a fruit basket will suffice next time,” he says sarcastically.

Cosette chuckles, before staring at him with those annoying wide eyes that always see too much. “He’s on the team, isn’t he?”

Grantaire stares at her open-mouthed. “What?” He says, trying to feign surprise. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“There are chickens on your bed and Courfeyrac put them there. I’m quite sure that someone on the team could actually figure out that that wasn’t the greatest of gifts. Even though it really was a funny one.”

“Cosette—”

“I won’t press you on this. And I won’t ask you his name.”

He can feel relief flooding him. “It’s not like I don’t want to tell you.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “And I wouldn’t ask you to lie for me or him or anyone and I know it can’t have been easy to come out on the first place for you, but—look, I do know you.”

The thing is, Cosette is right. It _wasn’t_ easy for him. It’s not anywhere near as bad as it would’ve been if he’d been a football player, and most of the hatred he gets still tends to be about what he _says_ rather than who he _does_ , but there’d still been some sexuality-related hate messages.

“Then what do you mean?”

“I mean—If this is what this is about, then you know I support your decision one-hundred percent. But if you’re just scared—of your feelings for him and his feelings for you, rather than not wanting to have to hide who you are again, then… well, you _are_ kind of being a coward. ”

Her words remind him of Courfeyrac’s words earlier that day. “This is the second time in six hours that I’ve been called a coward.”

“Maybe we’re trying to tell you something, sweetie,” she says. “Or maybe not. Anyway… talk to him, will you?”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. And you really, really should. From what I know about most of the team, they’re not bad people. And he—well, they—may care a little too much about their hairstyles but you know how footballers are. I know you hate it, but communication is always the key to a well-functioning relationship.”

“I hate relationships,” he complains loudly.

“Maybe,” she says quietly. “But you clearly don’t hate _him_.”

She kisses his cheek and rises from the floor and, yet again, Grantaire has no idea what to tell her.

It seems to be his day for being struck speechless.

He really doesn’t enjoy it.

—-

He gets rid of the chickens. Well, he gets rid of all but the two tiny live chickens, who he decides to call Nugget One and Nugget Two, just out of spite. It’s surprisingly easy to get rid of them. He posts the story on Twitter, sells it off as a ridiculous joke played on him by the french team to get back at him for his latest comments and everyone laughs and comments at how hilarious it is and how clever the people in the team are. After that, it’s not hard to get in touch with Russian orphanages and children hospitals and they all seem happy about taking a lot of stuffed chicken toys off his hands.

When the matchday finally arrives, he settles down to watch it in his bed with Nugget One and Two and starts talking as the match begins.

"Kids, I’m going to tell you an incredible story," Grantaire says. "The story of how I met your mother. Three days ago, before I was “dad”, I had this whole other life. And then, Enjolras kissed me and everything changed." Grantaire stares dramatically at the two tiny, fluffy chickens currently occupying his bed.

The two tiny, fluffy chickens stare back at him with equally unimpressed looks on their faces..

“Don’t look at your father like that,” Grantaire chides. “This is the story of how I decided to adopt you. It’s very important.”

“Bock?” the smaller chicken, the one Grantaire has started to call Nugget One, asks.

“Er—yes,” Grantaire says. “Sorry, I just don’t see the point in lying to children. You were going to find out sooner or later: I’m not your biological mother, Nuggets One and Two.” He wags a finger at them.“But don’t you dare use it to talk back to me when I tell you you can’t bring boy chickens home. Or girl chickens. Or both. Or chickens who think the gender binary is bullshit. But that’s not the point. The point is that I will have none of this ‘but Grantaire, you’re not our real mom’ shenanigans once you’re older, you hear me?”

He waits expectantly for an answer or a sign that they understood him but none is forthcoming. Ah, children. Can’t live with them, can’t make chicken parmesan out of them because you don’t have an oven.

“No chicken sex will happen under my roof. That is strictly against the rules. Also, no dating at least you’re until six months old. And, actually—and I can’t believe I have to tell you this—no kind of sex whatsoever with each other, you are siblings and this is precisely why you are not allowed to watch Game of Thrones. Nugget One is not Cersei Lannister, Nugget Two is not Jaime Lannister and I am not Tywin Lannister—I have much better hair, for one.” It occurs to him vaguely that he should maybe check if Nugget One and Two are male or female and warn them about the dangers of teen pregnancy as well but that will be a conversation for another day. The topic of conversation right now is Enjolras and it’s important to keep that in mind because while Grantaire likes to think he is a very self-aware it’s possible he has a slight tendency to go slightly off-target once he gets started.

“But anyway—Enjolras. See, this is where it gets confusing,” he says, leaning back against the headboard.

As he starts telling them all that’s happened since he’s agreed to fly down to Russia to cover the World Cup, the match plays on. Grantaire can see, as he talks on some much-deserved chicken therapy sort of thing, that France is not being particularly bad. In fact, they may even be playing better than Holland. At least Enjolras seems to be doing an excellent job leading the team.

The first half drags on with Grantaire complaining on and on about his story with Enjolras as the match goes on and on in his TV. Nugget One and Nugget Two occasionally express their agreement.

He gets up from the bed to order room service once half-time comes—taking the time to google whatever the fuck it is that chicken eat and ordering for them as well. He’d vaguely considered breastfeeding but he’d quickly arrived at the conclusion that it just wasn’t for him.

He settles back down again once he’s gotten a ridiculous assortment of Russian candy piled on the bed, along with a new bottle of vodka and continues with his story as the match starts again.

“And that’s when he kissed me,” he says. “Now, of course, everyone is so fucking ridiculously happy to tell me how completely over my head in love with him I am, right?” Which, if he’s being honest, isn’t what _anyone_ told him, but it is basically what he’s getting from it.“And I’m being a fucking coward and like that’s very nice and all, but I’m not in love with him. I am not in love with that idiot. I just want to bend him over the nearest flat surface. Or for him to bend me over the nearest flat surface. Maybe while he holds my hand and I let him talk tiki-taka to me. And afterwards we cuddle and he tells me I’m pretty and maybe we get tickets to the Champions League final—assuming he doesn’t qualify, of course—and oh fuck, I am in love with the asshole. Why did no one _warn_ me?”

Nugget One and Two don’t even bother clucking at him, heartless monsters that they are.

“You two are the most useless children I’ve ever had,” he says. “Not that I’ve had that many children, of course, but if I had I’m sure you’d be the worse. Even more terrible than that one time Cosette had me look after her pet snake and it tried to eat me. I don’t care what she says, it did so happen and also, yes, I can _so_ speak Parseltongue. Which is why I adopted chicken. You can’t disagree with me if I don’t speak your language. ”

“Bock?”

“Don’t talk back to your father,” Grantaire chides, without paying much attention to it.

His eyes focus on Enjolras in the TV. “He’s so pretty, isn’t it? You’d never guess how much of an obnoxious asshole he is from looking at him on the pitch.” Lower and in a more vulnerable tone, he adds, “Why am I in love with such an obnoxious asshole? I think it really is probably a good thing you two can’t talk, I can practically hear you both tell me that ‘like attracts like’. Which, shut up, we are very different types of obnoxious assholary. He is not the FIFA to my UEFA, he is the Inter to my Juventus—which, by the way, is a metaphor that I’m only using because everyone knows how hot Italians are, so when you both want to date and I finally allow it, I’ll make sure to introduce you to some nice Italian chicken. Because I’ll be damned if I’m not a Cool Mom.”

“Cluckcluck?” Nugget One asks.

“I think so, yeah,” Grantaire says quietly. “I think I should talk to him. Do you think I should talk to him?”

The choice is taken away from him, though, when Enjolras gets roughly tackled on the field and has to be carried out in a stretcher. He doesn’t return to the game after that.

“Right,” Grantaire says to the empty air and is out of the bed and in his shoes before he knows what he’s doing.

He scoops his chickens up in one hand and then he’s out of the door and knocking on Cosette’s before he‘s had time to think this through. Thinking things through is how he always gets in trouble in the first place, anyway.

Cosette opens the door with a grumpy look on her face. “I’m trying to watch the game, asshole, what the fuck—”

He shoves the chickens at her and they’re so cute she can do nothing but take them. “What the fuck?” Cosette asks, but he can see the effort she’s making to not visibly coo at them.

“There’s something I have to do. I think. Actually, I’m not sure. But there’s someone I have to talk to. Maybe. Can you just—babysit them for a moment?” He’s aware of the edge of hysteria in his voice. “Or chickensit them, I think?”

“Hum,” Cosette says slowly. “Yes?”

“You’re a real doll,” Grantaire says. He leans down to kiss her cheek and then once she’s slammed the door and he’s already halfway down the corridor he turns back on his step and knocks on her door once more.

“Well, that was quick,” she says, still clutching the tiny chickens in her hands.

Grantaire ignores her, and turns back to stare at the tiny chicks in her hands. “Right, I almost forgot the most important part of the story. This morning I had some chicken pizza for lunch and that is the absolutely true story of how I met your mother.” He frowns at himself. “Or possibly your father. Or aunt. Or—”

“Grantaire?”

“Right. Bye.”

He goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hi!](coolfeyrad.tumblr.com/).
> 
> On today's episode of 'fucking art how does it work':  
> http://coolfeyrad.tumblr.com/post/61116503209/cyniquegrantaire-based-on-if-it-moves-kick  
> http://unhooking-the-stars.tumblr.com/post/61175301665/i-really-enjoy-coolfeyrads-soccer-fic-and-the


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I--” Grantaire realizes he has no idea what to say. Decides to go with the truth for once. “I wanted to see you. I was worried.”
> 
> “Do you think this is fair?” Enjolras asks, narrowing his eyes at Grantaire. 
> 
> “I don’t think anything in life is fair.” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. “I think this isn’t fair and the world isn’t fair and football isn’t either. I think chocolate giving you diabetes isn’t fair. I think you aren’t fair and love certainly isn’t fair. _Nothing about life is fair_. But at the end of the day, we’re all still going to eat the chocolate, aren’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am extremely sorry it’s been this long, you guys!
> 
> Betaed by the lovely [Mariana](http://buckybaarnes.tumblr.com/) and [Nat](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/), my oomphy partner in crime.

The important thing to remember about Grantaire--which people so often tend to overlook--is that he is actually perfectly capable of making good, positive life choices. The only problem with this is, of course, the fact that he so often chooses not to.

He’s not exactly sure where Enjolras fits in the greater scheme of his life choices yet, or where he ranks exactly on a scale that goes from hiring Cosette (zero) to coming up with complex, intricate plans so he can punch FIFA’s president and get away with it (ten). Still, that’s not really the problem right now.  The problem right now is that Enjolras had to be carried off the pitch in a stretcher and Grantaire is actually, _God help him_ , worried about the asshole.

Theoretically, he knows Enjolras will probably be fine and it won’t be serious. Also, in the off-chance that France does make it through to the next stage without Enjolras there to guide them, he’ll most likely be fit enough to play the match--and even if he isn’t, it’s really not that big a deal in the grand scheme of things. And yet, the thought of Enjolras having to miss even a single match makes something heavy and uncomfortable twist in Grantaire’s stomach and that’s something he doesn’t want to look at too close right now--or anytime soon really (it’s possible that Courfeyrac and Cosette weren’t completely wrong when they called him a coward).

Now, it may surprise some people to know that he is perfectly aware that showing up at Enjolras’ door completely uninvited after The Kiss (and yes, he is still using capitalization inside his head, thank you very much) is probably not the best idea he’s ever had--but what else can he do?

He’s shocked with how easy it is for him to talk his way into France’s theoretically high-security hotel. _Press passes will get you anywhere these days_ , he notes with disgust. Again, because he can identify good and bad life choices, he knows that he is capable of breaking into Enjolras’ room. However, he is perfectly capable of recognizing that as a terrible life choice that will most likely end up with him getting punched in the face, so he sits down on the floor with his back against the door and waits for Enjolras to come back.

(In retrospect, falling asleep while waiting for Enjolras _is_ definitely a bad life choice, but it’s not like Grantaire actually planned that far ahead. Or at all. Screw it, he likes to be spontaneous. And to sleep in inappropriate places, apparently.)

\--

“Should we draw penises on his face, do you think?” Someone is saying, pulling Grantaire back towards wakefulness.

Reason number one why you should not fall asleep against people’s doors: Courfeyrac could draw penises on your face.

“Can’t we just throw him out of the window?” Enjolras’ voice replies. That is so not the reunion Grantaire was hoping for. Although, he supposes Enjolras can’t be _too_ hurt if he’s thinking about throwing Grantaire out of windows, so he’s going to manfully take it as a good thing rather than the death threat it probably is supposed to be.

Reason number two why you should not fall asleep against people’s doors: Enjolras can try to throw you out of the window.

“No,” Courfeyrac replies. They’re still not addressing Grantaire, and Grantaire himself has no intention to let them know he’s already awake so it’s all working out for the best for everyone involved so far.

“But--” Enjolras says, before Courfeyrac interrupts him.

“They’d find the body, there’d be an investigation, we’d both get sent to jail and I do not have the complexion for an orange jumpsuit, Enjolras. I just don’t.”

There is a thoughtful pause and Grantaire can feel Enjolras’ piercing eyes on him.

“We know you’re awake,” he says, finally addressing the elephant in the room--or journalist in the corridor, Grantaire supposes. There’s no warmth in his voice, though, and the emotionless, mechanical way he’s talking to Grantaire is like a punch straight to Grantaire’s stomach. The absolute worst thing about it is that he knows exactly how much he deserves it.

Especially because, as it turns out, Enjolras isn’t even done speaking yet. “So can you please get out of the way so I can go into my room?” he adds.

Come to think of it, a punch would probably be preferable.

Grantaire cracks open one eye to sneak a look at them. Courfeyrac is still ridiculously blond. Enjolras is still ridiculously _Enjolrasian_ , but he’s standing on his own two feet and there are no crutches on sight, and that has got to be a good sign.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Courfeyrac says, as Grantaire goes lumbering back to his feet.

“Actually, it isn’t,” Enjolras says. “Grantaire was just about to leave.” He wrinkles his nose. Grantaire has the suicidal urge to boop it--another terrible life choice right there and it’s really a good thing that he’s gotten good at identifying those.. “After he explains why he smells like live chicken.”

Courfeyrac very pointedly looks at nothing but the ceiling.

Words, Grantaire needs to say _words_. He opens his mouth and says the first thing that pops into his head. “See, I used to smell like roses but then everything changed when the fire nation attacked and--”

“Grantaire--” Enjolras warns coldly.

“A friend got me a couple of baby chickens as a joke present. I’m not sure what was the point but they are awfully cute. We were watching the match and I was telling them the story of how I met their mother but then I had to come here and didn’t have time to shower so I guess that is that.”

“Do you ever,” Courfeyrac asks, tilting his head towards Enjolras, “know that you probably do not want to know the answer to a question and yet still find yourself asking it?”

“Not really, no,” Enjolras replies.

“You’re a better man than me, then.” Turning to Grantaire, he asks, “How _did_ you meet their mother?”

Grantaire considers this. “I had some chicken pizza for lunch. I figured it was probably related to them somehow.”

“That’s a lovely story,” Courfeyrac says. “Do you know what’s the saddest thing about it?”

“That it’s still a better love story than How I Met Your Mother?”

Courfeyrac’s face falls. “Too soon, man,” he whimpers. “Much too soon.”

Grantaire magnanimously refrains from pointing out that it’s been four years. Instead, he envelops Courfeyrac in a one-armed hug and awkwardly pets the back of his head.

“You’re too precious for this world, did you know?” he tells Courfeyrac’s neck.

After a very awkward moment, Courfeyrac pulls away and pats Grantaire’s cheek with a little more force than Grantaire feels is strictly necessary. “I do like you,” he tells Grantaire in a serious tone of voice. Turning his head so Enjolras doesn’t see, he mouths, “so fix it,”under his breath, before mussing up Grantaire’s hair and sauntering down the corridor.

He turns back one last time to address Enjolras again. “If you do kill him, please warn me so I can get money to bail you out? And if you end up fucking him instead, please use a condom? I’m too young to be a godfather.”

Enjolras doesn’t even blink at this. Grantaire is both horrified and impressed.

“Unless you want me to stay, of course?” Courfeyrac is apparently not done speaking yet. That can’t be a good thing. “I did watch all that gay porn for you--I won’t join you, of course, but I’m more than happy to tell you what to do. I’ve always wanted to direct a porno.”

“You have issues,” Grantaire says.

“You’re just jealous because I have something you don’t,” Courfeyrac singsongs.

“Terrible taste in hairstyles?”

Courfeyrac snorts. “I meant the ability to walk into a room without making Enjolras want to throttle me, but if that will make you feel better, sure. We both know I am _really_ pulling it off.”

He salutes them one last time before quite literally bouncing his way down the corridor.

“He really isn’t pulling it off,” Grantaire tells Enjolras after an uncomfortable silence has settled. Although, even he must admit Courfeyrac’s hair is probably not the best topic to discuss. “He _is_ particularly bouncy, though. I take it you won?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says reluctantly “And Courfeyrac scored the winning goal, so he’s probably going to be insufferable for the next couple of days. There is probably going to be glitter and tiaras.” He bites his lip. “What are you doing here, Grantaire?”

“I--” Grantaire realizes he has no idea what to say. Decides to go with the truth for once. “I wanted to see you. I was worried.”

“Do you think this is fair?” Enjolras asks, narrowing his eyes at Grantaire.

“I don’t think anything in life is fair.” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. “I think this isn’t fair and the world isn’t fair and football isn’t either. I think chocolate giving you diabetes isn’t fair. I think you aren’t fair and love certainly isn’t fair. _Nothing about life is fair_. But at the end of the day, we’re all still going to eat the chocolate, aren’t we?”

Enjolras frowns. “Are you drunk?”

“No, I was just--worried. I just wanted to make sure you were okay, I think. And I wanted to see you. But I should go.”

“I don’t understand you sometimes,” Enjolras says, looking at Grantaire like he’s a puzzle and Enjolras can’t quite figure out how any of the pieces are supposed to fit together.

“It’s like--okay. Okay, so, when I was young my mom used to make cookies, right? And, you know, cookies are awesome, I love cookies. But she did this thing where half the cookies were raisin cookies and the other half were chocolate chip cookies and you never knew what it was until you bit into one, you know? And you never know, is the thing. No matter what cookie it is, no matter how delicious it looks, you never ever know if it’s chocolate chip or raisins. And, sure, I’d like to believe it’s chocolate chip but what if it’s raisins? I can’t--I can’t deal with raisin cookies right now and--”

“Have you considered maybe not eating the cookie?” Enjolras says, but it’s clear from his frown that he still has no idea what Grantaire is going on about.

“That’s probably the smartest thing I could do but. I don’t know. I think I could really like this cookie. But I just don’t know and it’s not fair. You know?”

“Not really,” Enjolras admits. “I never really did like chocolate.”

Of course he didn’t. And in a way, that’s just what Grantaire needed to hear.

“I should go,” he says, again, and his voice sounds a bit stronger than last time. He clasps Enjolras on the shoulder briefly and takes one step down the corridor. Then another. There’s something poking away at the edge of his mind. Another step. He can’t quite put his finger on it. Another step. He’s almost got it, almost--

“If you don’t like chocolate why did you want to have chocolate cake with me?” Grantaire asks.

“Did you just compare me to a raisin cookie?” Enjolras says indignantly at the same time, his voice rising with every syllable.

“What?” Grantaire says, his mouth hanging open.

“You are such an asshole,” Enjolras complains.

“No, _you_ are the asshole,” Grantaire says, and it’s possibly not the best comeback in the history of time.

“You are _both_ assholes,” a voice says and Grantaire turns his head just in time to see Feuilly poking his own head out of his room. “Now, go have your weird mating rituals somewhere else, some of us actually want to sleep.”

He slams the door forcefully behind him.

“So, that was Feuilly,” Grantaire feels the need to point out.

“Yes,” Enjolras replies stiffly.

“Remind me to bench him in the next match.”

“Can you do that?”

“I can do anything I want. Except talk Courfeyrac out of that terrible hair colour. I swear I’ve tried.”

Enjolras chuckles and shakes his head. “Goodnight, then,” he says, opening the door to his room. He seems on edge, as if waiting for something or some clue of what he’s supposed to do.

“Goodnight,” Grantaire says, but apparently Enjolras isn’t done speaking.

“Unless,” he says, taking a deep breath and staring at Grantaire straight in the eyes. “Unless you want to come in?”

Grantaire finds he very much wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My tumblr](arcoiriseglitter.tumblr.com/), after yet another URL change. 
> 
> This update was originally going to be much longer but then I realized it’s been five months and this was actually a decent place for a break and people on tumblr seemed to prefer a shorter update right now rather than wait for the whole thing so there it is. Next chapter will hopefully be up soon!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't suppose it would made things less awkward if I said I was sorry?" Grantaire asks, hoping that will indeed somehow make things less awkward.
> 
> Enjolras takes a deep breath, running a shaky hand through his hair. It’s nice to know that Enjolras can’t keep up his public face around him for long, Grantaire supposes. "You're not the one who should be apologizing." He chews on his lip and fidgets uncomfortably on the bed. "I am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [Mariana](http://buckybaarnes.tumblr.com/), [Nat](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/) and [Murf](http://lecapunk.tumblr.com/).

Grantaire stares at Enjolras.

Enjolras stares at Grantaire.

"Well, this isn't awkward at all," Grantaire says to break the heavy silence that’s been settling between them since they stepped into Enjolras' room. "Good to know I had nothing to worry about."

Enjolras snorts and sits down on his bed. Grantaire settles for hovering awkwardly by the door. Is Enjolras expecting him to sit down beside him on the bed? Is he supposed to sit on Courfeyrac's bed instead? Because really, Grantaire has sat down in a lot of weird places but Courfeyrac's bed looks like the aftermath of a very kinky fairy orgy, what with all the glitter and whatnot, and Grantaire would really rather not, given half a chance.

"What the fuck happened to Courfeyrac's bed?" he asks. Enjolras still isn’t saying a thing and Grantaire’s going to jump up at any opportunity to fill the silence, even if that means he potentially has to know about Courfeyrac’s sexual habits. Which apparently involve participating in a fairy orgy. Somehow. Grantaire _really_ does not want to know.

Enjolras shrugs. "Courfeyrac gets... _glittery_ when he's anxious. It was either let him glitterbomb people in our room or let him give me a new haircut. This seemed the smarter, safer choice. Also cleaner, somehow."

Yeah, Grantaire is definitely not sitting down on Courfeyrac's bed, then. Maybe he should just go. Is Enjolras expecting him to just go? Did he just invite Grantaire in out of some sense of obligation or social politeness or whatever the fuck Grantaire’s mom kept trying to talk to him about when he was a child and still goes on about whenever they meet for lunch?

Part of the problem is that Grantaire is not used to overthinking things like this. In fact, somewhere in the back of his mind, Cosette's voice tells him that he's not used to thinking about things at all--Grantaire would kindly like to tell Cosette's voice to fuck off. It certainly doesn’t help that there’s something off with Enjolras, something too controlled and polite about him. It looks like he’s thinking about every word he says or every tiny move he makes, sitting down immovable on the bed and staring with a closed-off expression at Grantaire. It takes Grantaire a moment to realize what it is. And then he knows with a sinking feeling what the problem is. That's Enjolras' public face, the one he uses for interviews and public appearances, an emotionless mask that betrays nothing of what he's thinking or feeling and it wasn't until now that Grantaire realizes the difference between that and the Enjolras he had been starting to know.

"Maybe I should go," he says. It's not what he wants, but it might be what Enjolras needs and, therefore, the best choice.

"No," Enjolras says, a little too quickly. He clenches and unclenches his hands. "I mean--We really should talk. If you want, that is."

God, everything is so awkward. Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever felt quite this awkward in his entire life. He didn’t even know he was physically capable of feeling quite this awkward. Nothing should ever be this awkward. Enjolras doesn’t seem to be inclined to fix it, though, so Grantaire supposes it’ll have to be him.

"I don't suppose it would made things less awkward if I said I was sorry?" Grantaire asks, hoping that will indeed somehow make things less awkward.

Enjolras takes a deep breath, running a shaky hand through his hair. It’s nice to know that Enjolras can’t keep up his public face around him for long, Grantaire supposes. "You're not the one who should be apologizing." He chews on his lip and fidgets uncomfortably on the bed. "I am."

Which--what?

"I shouldn't have kissed you," Enjolras says. His voice is completely even, utterly mechanical and controlled. "That was uncalled for and I had no right to do it and---"

"Enjolras."

"--I did not want to make things awkward between you and me or between you and the rest of the team and I am sorry if my actions have made you uncomfortable in any way. I had no right to kiss you and it was extremely unfair of me to do it. Please know that I did not approve of Courfeyrac’s plan."

"That was _completely_ called for," Grantaire snaps before he can stop himself. " The only way that could've been more called for would be for me to have had a plane fly over the match with a banner saying 'kiss me, you asshole'. Which I now realize is probably not as romantic as one might have wished, given the use of the word ‘asshole’, but--"

"No," Enjolras interrupts. "No, that's not--This isn't fair for you. And I didn't realize that until I kissed you but I can't do this to you. You were right to tell me to go."

Grantaire feels very lost. "No, I wasn’t. What the fuck are you on about? Is this about your injury? Did your bump your head? Oh god, is _that_ what happened?"

Enjolras waves a hand dismissively. “That was just my leg, it’s fine. I can probably play in the next match, that’s not the problem. The problem is…” Enjolras steadily avoids meeting Grantaire's eyes. Instead, he stares intently at the carpet. "Ever since I was a little boy, every single choice I have ever made has been for my career."

“Okay?” Grantaire says slowly, because he knows this, they’ve been over this before and he doesn't quite figure out where this information is supposed to fit in with the conversation he thinks they’re having. "I don't--"

"I don't regret it," Enjolras continues, ignoring the interruption. "It's what I wanted, Grantaire. It's what I have always wanted. And this, having a chance to do this, to be here and play in a World Cup and represent my country has been my dream since I was boy. There has never been a time when this wasn’t what I wanted most of all."

"That's nice for you?" Grantaire offers, still having no idea what’s going on.

"But nothing comes without a price," Enjolras adds. He still sounds off, like he’s talking about something that happened to someone else and not to him. "And the moment I signed my first professional contract I knew that meant that if my career was to take off the way I wanted it to I couldn't be in a normal relationship. At least not with a boy, that is. And seeing as I didn’t want to be in a relationship with a girl, that meant I couldn’t be in a normal relationship at all, or go on dates, or do any of those things that you’re supposed to do and to want to do.  I don't regret it. I never could regret it because, for the most part, I do want to focus on football and, honestly, I don't know if I'd be that interested in dating even if it was a choice that I could make." He pauses and chews on his lip. "Partially because not dating means I don't have to go on double dates with Courfeyrac.” He laughs but it sounds hollow to Grantaire’s ears. “But mostly because my career is my number one priority and it’s always going to be and I don't regret that."

Finally, Grantaire gets it. For a moment, the space between them hangs heavy with the silence of things left unsaid. If Grantaire had any sense of self-preservation he'd leave right now. He’d leave right now because Enjolras’ career is always going to come first and Grantaire knows that no matter what may happen between them, when the moment comes that Enjolras will have to choose between Grantaire and his career--and sooner or later, the moment _will_ come-- Grantaire will always come second. He really, really should leave. "But...?" he urges instead, like the big moron he is.

"But I like you," Enjolras says simply, shrugging his shoulders like it's easy. He looks at Grantaire straight in the eye when he says it.

"Do you ever feel like your life would make a fantastic soap opera?” Grantaire asks conversationally, sitting down across from Enjolras on Courfeyrac's bed. "Which--I don't suppose you have a hot identical twin hidden somewhere?"

Enjolras gapes at him. "What? Are you understanding what I'm trying to tell you?"

"You’re telling me that making millions of euros a year means you don't get to hold a boy's hand in public." Grantaire hates himself just a little for the way Enjolras flinches at his words. That’s really not what he’d been meaning to say, because he knows it’s not Enjolras’ fault at all, but it just isn’t _fair_. “I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right, I meant--”

"No, you’re right,” Enjolras says sadly. “Whoever I happened to be with--I can't hold his hand or ever be in public together with him or call him my boyfriend or--"

"Would you want to call him your boyfriend?"

"That's not--That's not the point, Grantaire. I can't--I _won't_ give up my career. Not even for someone I.. someone I liked. And I can't ask someone to live a lie for me."

"What if you didn't have to ask?" Grantaire asks, because he really does have the emotional sense of self-preservation of a fainting goat. “What if this potential person was okay with that?”

"What are you saying, Grantaire?" Enjolras asks, and his eyes are hopeful when he looks at Grantaire.

"I'm saying I like you, too. And I'm saying--okay. Look, it sucks that it's a choice that you have to make, but if this is a thing that you want... If _us_ is a thing that you want, then... okay. Even if that means I don't get to hang out with all the other WAGs and trade hair tips. I’m saying I’m okay with being your dirty little secret."

"I can’t ask you to do that. It's not fair for you."

"You’re not asking me to do anything. And I believe we've just been over this. The world isn't fair. Right now I don't give a fuck. Look, you punched me, we flirted with each other, you kissed me. Now, surprisingly enough, that’show most of my relationships start. But, Enjolras, we barely know each other. And I get why you're telling me this and why you feel like I have to know it. I really, really do but I'm not hearing any wedding bells yet. _We barely know each other_. You could hate me. I could hate you. It could be terrible. I could bleach my hair like Courfeyrac's and you'd never take me seriously again. You could start playing for Barcelona and I could throw you out of the window. I could run away with Mourinho. I could--"

"I get it," Enjolras interrupts. "So, what do you want?"

"This," Grantaire says, leaning forward to entwine his fingers with Enjolras'. "It doesn't have to be like this whole Romeo and Juliet, Jack and Rose, Ross and Rachel star-crossed thing, you know? We've just met. You don't have to shout from the rooftops about Enjolras and Grantaire, sitting on a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. If the time ever comes when you do want that then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, I am okay with whatever you want. We can just take it nice and slow for now."

"Nice and slow?" Enjolras asks suspiciously.

"Nice and slow," Grantaire repeats. "I believe this sort of thing usually starts with a date."

"A date?"

"Yes. You have a day off tomorrow, don't you?"

"Yes, but--"

"So we have a date tomorrow," Grantaire says, with his best attempt at a voice that brooks no arguments.

"But we can't--"

"I can come over and we can order room service and do whatever it is normal people do on dates."

"But--"

Grantaire gives Enjolras’ hand a squeeze. "Do you _want_ to have a date tomorrow?"

"Well, yes, but--"

"Then, we'll have a date tomorrow. For now, you get to tuck in and rest from the game. A good night's sleep will probably do wonders for you." Grantaire gets to his feet. "I can see myself out..."

His voice trails off as Enjolras gets up too and his fingers graze Grantaire's hand. He feels a jolt of electricity shoot up from the place where they touched. "I can walk you out," Enjolras says, looking only at Grantaire's lips.

Grantaire knows that leaving is the right choice but it still doesn't make it any easier for him to speak. "I think I know where the door is." He can't stop staring at Enjolras' lips, either. Enjolras' eyes have gone dark and intense and Grantaire has got to get out of this room as fast as he can before he does something incredibly stupid. Like bend Enjolras over the nearest flat surface. Or have Enjolras bend him over the nearest flat surface. He's really not that picky. "I mean, I could stay but that'd be the--" He gulps as Enjolras licks his lips. Tries to speak. Counts to ten. Tries again. "That'd be the opposite of nice and slow. That'd be..."

"Terrible and fast?" Enjolras offers.

Grantaire pauses. "For future reference, if you're trying to get into a guy's pants, you probably should not use the words 'terrible' and 'fast'. In fact, that may be just the opposite of the words you want to use."

Grantaire is sure that he had something else to say but Enjolras is all up in his personal space and when the fuck did he get this close to Grantaire? He's only a couple of inches away from Grantaire's mouth and Grantaire is painfully aware of this fact.

Then Enjolras opens his mouth and says something that makes absolutely no sense to Grantaire’s brain. "Antonym."

"Come again?"

"Antonym," Enjolras says, still looking intently at Grantaire's mouth. "The opposite of a word--that's an antonym."

"Wow," Grantaire breaths out. "You are really bad at bedroom talk, aren't you?"

"Fuck you," Enjolras says and Grantaire's quite sure that that wasn't he meant by it and he's probably getting ready to curse Grantaire out for some reason or another but he never gets to know exactly what Enjolras meant to say after that because the next thing he knows he's pulling Enjolras’ stupid face down and he’s kissing Enjolras' stupid mouth and, for once, Enjolras is blissfully quiet.

When Enjolras starts kissing him back it's definitely neither nice nor slow, nor sweet or loving--it's biting and bruising and it’s passion and fire that somehow sends Grantaire’s brain flying out the window. When one of Enjolras’ hand fists in his shirt and the other slides down his back towards Grantaire’s back pocket, he has no idea why the fuck he ever thought nice and slow was a good idea.

"D'you know," he says, when they come up for air and Enjolras starts to drag Grantaire's shirt over his head. "Nice and slow may be extremely overrated."

"D’you know, I think you’re actually right," Enjolras half-moans half-growls into Grantaire's neck, biting down hard enough to leave a bruise and after that Grantaire can’t think coherently at all.

Grantaire isn't sure who pushes who down towards Enjolras' bed. Isn't sure it matters, if he's being completely honest. Enjolras stops kissing him only long enough to take off his own shirt and send it flying to the floor. Grantaire’s pants and boxers come off next. Then Grantaire is naked and Enjolras is naked and straddling him, and Grantaire doesn't know what he did in a past life, didn't even believe in past lives up till this point, but he's quite sure he must've been a saint in at least one of those.

 _Jesus_ , he thinks as he looks up at Enjolras, all blond hair gone wild and lust-filled blue eyes looking at Grantaire like he wants to devour him. Grantaire was definitely Jesus in a former life.

He pulls away from Enjolras' lips and rolls them over in one swift movement so he's the one doing the straddling. Enjolras whimpers in a deliciously needy sort of way and Grantaire smirks as he wraps a lazy hand around Enjolras’ cock. "Do you think I was Jesus in a past life?"

"Oh god," Enjolras moans, throwing back his head.

“No, not God-- _Jesus_ ,” Grantaire corrects.

"Is this--fuck," Enjolras hisses, when Grantaire starts moving his hand. "Is _this_ appropriate bedroom talk?"

"Shut up," Grantaire says pleasantly. "I'm trying to decide if I want to hold you down and suck you off until you come shouting my name or if I should just let you fuck my face instead."

"That's really--" Enjolras takes a sharp breath. "I mean. If I get a say in it, I'd rather you fucked me. I mean, if you want. You don't have to--Oh god, have I broken you? Please say something, Grantaire."

"You know," Grantaire says conversationally. "If you don’t have condoms and lube within a 0.5 meters radius of this bed you may actually see me cry and it's all going to be your fault."

Enjolras pulls Grantaire's head down for a filthy kiss. He runs his hands over Grantaire's chest, taking a moment to pinch lightly at one of Grantaire's nipples and _fuck_. "Courfeyrac," Enjolras gasps out.

"Well," Grantaire says, going completely still on top of Enjolras. "If that's your safeword it sucks. Also, mine is Sepp Blatter. I'd tell you to pick Messi but I think safewords are supposed to be things you don't actually shout out in the middle of sex."

"I violently dislike you," Enjolras says, with as much dignity as he can muster (which is a surprising amount, really, seeing as he's naked and Grantaire’s hand is still wrapped around his cock). "I meant Courfeyrac has them on his bedside table. He was using them as water balloons and throwing them at the English press this morning." He frowns at Grantaire. "Can you please not use the SB-word when we're naked in bed?"

Grantaire ignores Enjolras as much as he can--which is none at all because Enjolras _is_ naked and sprawled underneath Grantaire. But he tries. He really does. He kisses Enjolras instead. Enjolras reaches up for something and the next thing Grantaire knows, lube and a condom are being pressed into his hand and _oh, god,_ they're really going to do this and--He eyes the condom.

"Strawberry flavored, how _did_ you know? Is it because it's my birthday? I mean, it's not really my birthday, but--"

"If you don't do _something_ in the next minute, I'm going to roll you over and fuck your brains out myself. And possibly gag you, because, really, do you _ever_ shut up?"

"I fail to see how that's actually an effective threat. Except for the gagging part, because, really, Sepp Blatter to that one. Unless you want to gag me with your cock, of course, in which case I am definitely not Sepp Blattering that."

"Grantaire--" Enjolras interrupts

"Right, doing things! It'd be more comfortable for you if you got on your hands and knees, you know," he points out, pouring a liberal amount of lube in his hand.

"I'm good like this," Enjolras says breathlessly.

"Are you sure? I mean--"

"Just because I don't date doesn't mean I'm completely unfamiliar with the sexual process--"

Grantaire kisses him to make him shut up and when Enjolras kisses him back the rest of the world fades away. Any other time he’d say something extremely cutting and sarcastic about Enjolras’ word choice, but right now it doesn't matter because his traitorous fingers have started moving _inside_ Enjolras--really, how the fuck did that happen?--and there are times even Grantaire doesn’t have it in him to be a sarcastic asshole.

\--

Later, when they've both cleaned up and are lying side by side on Enjolras' bed and Grantaire has somehow regained the ability to speak, he feels the need to be a smartass again. "Nice and slow is _definitely_ overrated."

"Go the fuck to sleep, Grantaire," Enjolras says, half-heartedly hitting him with a pillow.

Just this once, Grantaire decides to oblige him--strictly just to keep him on his toes. He drifts off to sleep with Enjolras' face half-buried in his neck, their legs tangled together, and their hands joined over his chest.

\--

In the morning, when Grantaire wakes up, they’re still holding hands.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot write porn to save my life, please do not judge me.
> 
> [My tumblr!](http:%5C%5Carcoiriseglitter.tumblr.com/)


End file.
